


Echoes of Silence Past

by Ophelias



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Cock Piercing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Leather Kink, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, Voice Kink, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelias/pseuds/Ophelias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders could feel Fenris’ eyes on him, an unwavering stare prickling his skin. Anders wanted to scratch that unholy itch until they both bled. If he wished to overrule the looming beast, he must find redemption between his elven shadow’s gaze and his own reflection in the water.</p><p>Between outcroppings of rock along the Minanter River's edge, Fenris sought words of persuasion. He must reach for reason and hope in a sky that stretched the length of Thedas before them. He wanted to make Anders cry and laugh and scream and beg, and all at once.</p><p>Fenris railed. “I hated Justice with every fiber of my soul. But without him to control your impulses, you are half a man.” Anders turned, defiant. “Or a man and a half, compared to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Echoes of Mourning and Loss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendency (ellnyx)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pendency+%28ellnyx%29).



Something indefinable changed after they departed the city of Nevarra. Fenris and Anders continued west, spurring newly acquired horses to a spirited gallop along the winding Minanter river. While Anders still led, he no longer looked back over his shoulder, content to measure the difference in volume between two sets of hooves. He did not increase the distance between them, nor did Fenris attempt to close it. They were headed the same direction. They were safer together than alone. It was…

It reminded Anders of the day he and Fenris discovered their mutual loathing for blood mages. Up and down reversed themselves when blood mages seeking power boasted at transforming Templars into abominations. The trip home was quiet, Darktown’s air cloying. Even when Anders tripped over a rock in distraction at his thoughts, Fenris said nothing. Anders couldn’t even bring himself to needle Fenris over his omission. The entire group sulked home miserable, defeated, covered in blood and sin.

It took a couple of days before they returned to their usual verbal sparring. It almost came as a relief when they reverted to loudly picking at their emotional wounds in the presence of one another. As the volume of their arguments increased, the world let out the breath it held and started turning again.

Then there was the time Keeper Marithari sacrificed herself to purge the demon behind Merrill’s eluvian. Barbed words unfurled from two sets of downturned mouths, joining to stab at more worthy prey despite Merrill’s renewed wailing at each pointed addition. If unbowed by remorse, Merrill’s pridefulness would no doubt extract a second price and render the Keeper’s passing meaningless. Sad resignation at being on the same side of another matter concerning the use of magic felt as unsettling as returning via the ancient graveyard. The silence only lasted until they reached the Dalish camp below.

Years later, Isabela gained ownership by default of Castillon’s agile ship. Both men sensed it was just a matter of time before she cast off from Kirkwall. The Hanged Man seemed emptier with Isabela off to arrange repairs and hire a crew. From Fenris’ expression, it was clearly the first time he’d stopped to consider that they’d slept with the same woman. Now Anders wondered whether Fenris had chosen Isabela in part for that vaguely tethered connection, perhaps without even realizing it. Startled by Isabela’s absence, they had stood together in air still faint with her perfume. Fenris’ elbow leaned itself against an ale soaked counter. They drank in silence, rancid mead no less sour than their shared mood.

They never spoke of these events again. They stood as isolated moments in time, rare exceptions that proved the general rule. After Kirkwall’s crisis, after the rescue in Wildervale and Nevarra’s revelations, one thing was clear. The rules of life as commonly understood were not merely meant to be broken. They never existed in the first place. Now Anders looked back, reviewing incidents from a distant past. And they held the beginning of something bigger. Whatever indefinable thing this was with Fenris, it was there all along, a pane of clear glass so perfectly shaped and clean that it was not seen until it was felt.

Escaping Nevarra’s capital city left Anders whiplashed, reeling from a hard smack against unbreakable glass. It was hard enough learning why his elven shadow persisted in keeping its host alive. The palpable silence between them despite their close distance harkened to past agreements much like a finger pressed against a mirror can impart to a lonely man the fleeting illusion of another’s touch. A hardened atheist, Anders half wondered whether life itself was nothing more than an undulating underside mirror of water glittering above millions of anonymous heads drowning in their own sorry ignorance.

On fleet horses, Anders and Fenris floated across green landscape, as far above the people of Thedas as eggshell clouds glided over a meandering river and rolling hillside dancing merrily together. Isolated in midair, blown forward by swift hooves and swifter remorse, the two hastened travelers listened as the Kirkwall chantry’s ghostly bells tolled rapturously to mark the church’s own funeral. A foreboding intimacy spawned forth from their silent mourning of the baleful tones only they could hear. The facade that pitted mages against Templars stood as flimsy as an oasis of passion mocking its emotional desert.

Reminders rippled everywhere, yet not a drop to think. While Anders and Fenris reassuringly remained enemies, it was of a new sort entirely. The tension between them was no longer about who was right or wrong. Everyone was wrong, as nobody understood the question. It had all been a horrible mistake. Life itself was a mistake. Anders was a mistake, had always been a mistake, and would always be a mistake.

Anders fled west only to gift his elven shadow with another day of sun. If Anders drew one more black cloud overhead, it would extinguish the only thing he could still bring himself to care for. If he wished Fenris to see the moon, Anders must search out any hint of redemption in his shadow’s gaze. He must seek any small comfort in his own reflection on the river shared between Nevarra and the Free Marches.

Anders could feel Fenris’ eyes on his back, an unblinking stare unwavering in its intensity. It made his skin itch. Anders wanted to scratch that unholy itch until they both bled. He knew he was not alone in this. They seemed equally determined to undo one another now, to be the first to claim victory and the last to succumb to baser instincts. It had been firmly established that they were both in danger of breaking, if not broken already. Temptation to push fragile limits lurked everywhere. Yet they said nothing of it. It was a dangerous game they played. It seemed unlikely that this war could ever be won or lost. Their sound and fury would climax in a standstill that brokered no peace and left no survivor.

So what. The gambler who dies on safari need never pay up. Neither party had anything left to lose.

Except one another.


	2. Echoes of Guilt and Shame

When Anders looked over his shoulder, Fenris growled. True, the elf admitted to himself, he was staring at the blonde. He was man enough to admit that. But there was no need for the mage to look back with an expression that accused of far too much. It was Anders who should be ashamed of his actions, not himself. Fenris was only reacting naturally to the clear provocation placed before him.

Fenris blamed his temper on Anders’ new boots. The old ones had been infuriating enough, with their rows of silver rings on either side of the laces. Those rows were apiece to all the other rings and buckles on the mage’s needlessly ornate getup. The clumsy man’s clunky approach could be heard from almost as far as a chevalier’s plate mail. While Fenris understood the necessity of protecting human feet with their soft insoles, he could not fathom the obscenity of extending the leather above the calves. Surely that was what trousers were for. Tall leather boots were impractical, showy, unnecessary. Anders was not some peddler of base pleasures, no Hightown dandy. Did he hide an ugly scar, perhaps? Trousers might ride up, but leather boots could be laced tight, keeping scars hidden. He did lace them tightly.

No, it was worse. Anders laced tall boots tight around his legs because he liked the way it felt. It was no different from the way he wore feather pauldrons. Fenris had caught him rubbing his chin against the feathers idly when bored or thoughtful. Once, when embarrassed, Anders shoved his nose into a down shoulder to hide his blush. Fenris had even seen him pluck a feather and run it along his own hands, long fingers twitching gently when the feather reached his dainty fingertips. Filthy behavior to do in public.

The new boots went even further up the blonde’s pale legs, black trailing above the knee before flirting with the mage’s thigh. Tied similarly tight with thick trousers underneath, the getup must threaten circulation. The new leather creaked when Anders mounted or dismounted his horse. As if to flaunt their impracticality, these boots laced up the back, thin black bows ending just beneath thick leather tabs apparently designed to help the wearer pull the boots on. Fenris imagined Anders could feel the tabs tickling his thighs, the pull of laces behind, the push of bunched leather against the inside of his knee.

The boots were in no danger of coming off, unlike the old ones. Fenris would not miss the cloth strips used to keep the more broken older boot on the blonde’s leg. But what, then, was the purpose on the new boots of the brass rings along the top of each foot? They started near the toe, a leather stripe sewn into the sole and then curving over the toes before forming another tab, this one holding a brass ring about the width around of a broom handle. On the other side of the first ring, another piece of leather was sewn around before travelling a short distance to wrap around the next ring. Each successive ring grew larger in size until the last ring ended at the size of a tightly clenched fist near the top of the boot.

Anders had called the boots practical, pointing out his inexperience in the saddle and demonstrating how the heels kept his feet firmly planted on the stirrups. The heels were broader even than the sole, as it to assure the public that they were manly shoes for noble riders. Those heels also made Anders almost two inches taller. Ridiculous, the way they subtly changed his posture, emphasizing the same rounded rear end that now lifted repeatedly from the horse’s saddle as Fenris watched Anders ride ahead of him. The inexperienced rider part was clearly true. But the boots were hardly practical. Or necessary. Or fair.

Anders would be sore enough by nightfall that he would find it painful to sit down. Suited him right.

Justice would have never allowed the purchase of extravagant footwear. The spirit was obsessed with helping the mage cause to the point of making his host suffer from hunger and lack of sleep. His spare coin went towards the mage underground that ferried apostates far from Kirkwall’s Templars. What little remained went into the clinic where Anders attempted to save more lives than Justice destroyed. Any rare exceptions were for practical upgrades to his travelling attire that aided the mage in battle. 

That had changed at the end, the exception that proved the rule. Justice must have been satisfied enough with their unholy bargain that he allowed Anders one final indulgence. The tan feathers and coat were exchanged for black, paired off with matching attire. Perhaps Justice understood this was the right color to mourn those he planned to kill. Perhaps it was a contingency so that if Anders died, Justice could better conceal the decay of the body he planned to continue inhabiting. Either way, the insistence on practicality remained. The outfit remained battle ready. Yet it was Anders who chose within the parameters allowed, Fenris was sure. Justice would not select gold embroidery and heavy brass accents.

The fool mage had probably been shooting for “dashing revolutionary.” He sought to make an attractive corpse. No doubt he fantasized about his manifesto lovingly copied into folios bearing his darkened visage on the cover, hard scribbles of black on brown paper turning a withered body into a heroic figure. He had been so sure that he and Justice were a single entity that he never considered whether Justice might have plans for his corpse beyond a martyr’s funeral overflowing with weeping apostates.

The first time Fenris saw the black outfit and its contrast to milky white skin, his eyes glazed over and his mouth went slack and impassive. It was a ruse to hide strong emotions, a skill learned out of necessity in Tevinter that proved useful wherever he went. Anders smiled at compliments received from others, and Fenris shook his head. He pushed down the impulse to shove Anders against the nearest wall with hands tight around that slender neck. Snapping it would be a mercy, kissing it a confession. Fenris did neither. Instead, when Anders looked his way, their eyes locked. The silence between them spoke volumes.

Fenris felt as helpless then as the day Danarius pulled forward a rebellious slave for Fenris to make an example of. Wide watery eyes looked into his, a whispered plea speaking to a long familiarity that could not be recalled. It was a test, Fenris knew. Any delay would put his own life in danger. If he did not obey, the slave would only die at the hands of a different guard. Fenris whispered a heartfelt apology before shoving in his glowing fist and doing his duty to his Master. He tried not to cringe at gurgled forgiveness.

Danarius voiced his pleasure as the blood dripped down Fenris’ wrist and fingers. Fenris responded the only way he could, with disapproving silence. That night, Hadriana made her jealousy known by seeking retaliation. She set a verbal trap that provided an excuse to deny Fenris his meal. Once alone, the elf laughed and cried at once because he could not have eaten anyway. He cried himself to sleep, a mercy he did not deserve. It was the first night of many when Hadriana delivered the punishment he deserved.

It was nearly a decade before Fenris once again laughed and cried simultaneously. He had promised Hawke he would watch over the mages in the party, and he kept his word. He grew suspicious when Anders began requesting favors from Hawke that were not directly tied to Templars, herbs, or apostate runaways. He tried needling information from the mage and failed. Then the black robes appeared. Soon Varric brought word that Anders had attempted to give him a personal effect of great sentimental value.

Fenris waited for the group’s next gathering at the Hanged Man and headed to Anders’ clinic instead. The warrior’s iron will was the only thing that prevented him from turning the place upside down in search of answers. Instead, he thoughtfully lifted items that might contain or cover secrets and carefully placed them back where they stood before. It had frankly been a little disturbing when he found the Tevinter tome hidden underneath the table Anders used for surgeries and hard luck cases. Anders had assumed nobody would attempt to lift up the blood stained floor boards. He had not counted on Fenris.

By then, Fenris had been reading for several years. Though he could fluently speak modern Tevinter, Ancient Tevene was too challenging for full comprehension. Based on the pages with corners turned, he could expect a drifting cloud of black death able to put the choke damp to shame, a column of blinding light rising to the sky’s edge, or an earthquake large enough to swallow half of Kirkwall. Fenris stole the tome, but he was too late to stop the plan. When the Chantry blew the following morning, Fenris cried at his failure and in his grief. He laughed at how deadly a dancing column of light could be and at how little collateral damage there was for an initial volley designed to begin a war. It was so… Anders.

And there he was, only a short walk from the decrepit mansion Fenris dared not call home. Anders sat on a bench, drumming his slender fingers impatiently as if waiting for a random passer by to comment on the weather. Fenris got there first, being housed closest to the steps where the chantry once stood. Anders startled, looking at him with such honest sorrow and hinted longing that Fenris’ breath caught in his throat. Fenris did not know what to say, so he let his reddened eyes speak for him. Hands clenched, he waited for the others to arrive. They stood in shared silence, mourning Kirkwall’s future together.

By the time Anders had given his speech and turned his back to await Hawke’s judgment, Fenris was dry eyed and sober. This was as much his fault as Anders’. He had given an oath of vigilance, once to Hawke and many more times to himself.. He had failed in his duty. He would not fail again, not if this was the cost. While the abomination lived, he realized, he could not release himself from prior obligation. Anders now chained him as surely as Danarius ever had. When Anders consented to death, Fenris suggested Hawke get it over with. It would be a clean death, a poetic end. Hawke chose otherwise.

When Hawke let Anders go, Fenris knew the mage would run far and fast. He was all too right. Still, he was shocked by Anders’ hollow expression when he finally caught up to him in Wildhaven. Fenris recognized the haunted look he’d seen in his own mirror so many mornings after a night of hard drinking. Somehow seeing it on another man’s face made him consider new possibilities. If history was any guide, Danarius had not merely commanded Fenris to kill the Fog Warriors. He would have used blood magic to compel his former slave to obey. Of course he would. Why take unnecessary risks?

Sebastian was no better. He sought to take Anders to trial, to brand him a terrorist instead of a rebel. But why transport a dangerous criminal when a Tranquil did just as well? A tranquil mage would relay a confession with perfect precision. He would not answer his charges with arguments from the mage manifesto. Best of all, he could show no remorse at his deeds. There would be no question that Elthina was the true martyr, that Anders stood a godless mass murderer. The scheme backfired horribly.

Fenris was torn between an unexpected dread of loneliness and wild hopes of freedom when the Ritual of Tranquility began. Instead, the ritual forced Justice from Anders’ body and returned it to the Fade. The man left behind remained a mage, perhaps the most dangerous and broken mage in all of Thedas. Worse, despite Anders’ protestations, Fenris could not hold him guilty for those crimes committed in the name of Vengeance. Fenris knew what it was like to watch the carnage through your eyes, to feel your muscles commit terrible deeds, to breathe the emotion and logic behind those actions from behind a glass wall. It took one victim of compulsion to recognize another. Nobody else could trust or understand.

Fenris now believed that they could not be blamed for what their puppet masters made them do. Yet he also believed that their souls were equally damned as if the acts had been of their own choosing. When Anders ran again, Fenris followed. Nevarra came after. The puppet masters they knew were themselves pawns to chess masters of epic proportion. Now he and Anders were linked. Together or apart, their time on this world remained short. There would be no safe place to call home. They could never be free. Fenris needed to help Anders understand. He wanted to make him cry and laugh and scream and sob.

When had this become so personal? Fenris knew full well he had made it so. He himself did not know why. He felt like a glutton at a table groaning with the weight of delicacies he had dreamed of as a child. Starved, he must eat if he sought to remember. Fenris must seek the answers in the shadows between outcroppings of rock along the river’s edge. He must find reason to hope for a better day in the sky that stretched the length of Thedas before them. Anders could not understand. Fenris was a man of few words, and times like these made him feel as if he had no voice at all. He was nothing, from nowhere.

If Anders let him, he would gorge himself. A death row inmate eats without guilt. Under this pretense, he could give his own veiled confession. After all they’d seen, neither of them had anything left to lose.

Except one another.


	3. An Isolated Skirmish

Anders’ horse snorted and slowed to a trot. As Fenris caught up, he jerked his chin towards the river in a silent question. Anders nodded, and they dismounted where a burbling stream fed into a shallow bank.

Anders’ horse immediately clopped over to the stream and began to drink. Fenris dismounted and gave his horse a pat when it dropped its head down to graze at long yellow grass beneath foot. The elf pointedly averted his gaze when the telltale creak of bent leather was followed by approaching splashes of inch deep water. The splashes went past as Fenris kept his eyes to his horse, then ruffling grasses took their place. When the creak repeated its sound in reverse, Fenris’ curiosity got the better of him.

Anders sat on a nearby tree stump, unlacing his left boot and slowly loosening the ties until he could inch out his leg, ankle, and foot. He turned the boot upside down and shook it gently until a pair of small pebbles flew out and skittered away. Anders attempted to look up into the boot to search for more rocks. Fenris looked sideways at him, one eye unblinking while the other remained covered by a fringe of white hair. The scent of musty wool and elfroot wafted over, punctuated at the end by an oaky musk.

Unsatisfied, Anders rolled up the leg of his trousers and pulled off his nearly knee length sock. He began shaking the sock out as well. A third rock fell out, uncharacteristically prompting a metal clang when it bounced off Anders’ foot. Fenris’ head snapped towards Anders’ naked foot, eyebrows gathering together in consternation. A scowl formed as he stared. “Venhedis, what on Thedas is that?!” Fenris turned his back to the stump, turned back with a half raised finger, then turned away again, agitated.

“What’s wrong? Is someone coming?” Anders looked around worriedly. Brown eyes searched the horizon for company. Finding none, he turned back to Fenris, whose palm now gestured at his feet.

“Is that... a toe ring?” Fenris pointed at a wide gold band glinting around Anders’ second toe.

“What?” Anders looked back at his foot, eyes drawn to the shiny metal as recollection dawned. He broke into a grin, wiggling his toes in appreciation at a presumed compliment. “Oh, do you like it?”

“No, I do not,” Fenris spat out. “Ridiculous.”

Anders’ smile turned downwards into a disappointed pout. “Then why did you mention it?”

“Because it’s… inappropriate.” Fenris cringed. ”I told you. We must conserve our coin. There is no room for luxuries. We could have traded that in Nevarra. Even in Tevinter, men do not wear hidden jewelry.”

“So? I hear it’s common in Rivain,” Anders countered. “They have a saying there that I rather like. If the ring fits, wear it.” Anders rubbed his earlobe between two fingers, missing the ring he’d long since sold.

“But… there’s nothing practical about it!” Fenris looked like he might stroke out in pure frustration.

“Of course not!” Anders shrugged. “It’s just for fun. I’ve had it forever. Honestly, I forgot it was there.”

“Just for fun?” Fenris’ forehead scrunched into angry lines. “Like your new boots?”

“Oh, no.” Anders rolled his eyes. “Not that again.”

“Yes, that. Again!” Fenris stared persistently into Anders’ eyes, gaze forced away from that unshorn foot. It was a pointed expression that Anders had seen before only when Fenris was playing cards.

The mage sensed advantage and strolled closer, one foot still creaking while the other brushed quieter through thick grass. He watched as Fenris’ stare travelled up his body. Anders dropped his voice to a low whisper, forcing Fenris to lean forward to hear it. “Unless you want to turn around and ride back to Nevarra for a refund, I’m done talking about this.” He punctuated his point by putting his naked foot on Fenris’ knee and pushing gently. The wind sensed their held breaths and blew stronger in sympathy. Bunched trousers ruffled, pale leg flexing as a sunbeam travelled down fine blond hairs to the gold ring.

Fenris saw an echoing glow and recognizing it as the activation of his brands. Shutting them down with forced will, he strode to the stump and snatched the left boot from the ground. In a smooth motion, he pulled a small dagger from his belt while seating himself on the stump. He drew the boot to eye level and cut the leather tab that held the first brass ring near the toe in place. Anders dropped his mouth open in shock, gaping as if Fenris had just broken a rabbit’s neck in front of him. Satisfied, Fenris cut another leather tab, this one holding the ring in place at the top of the boot. Anders’ nostrils flared.

“This is for wasting money.” Fenris shook the row of rings, satisfied by a metal clank. Then he shoved them angrily into a belt pouch, tossing the boot toward Anders. He stood and sheathed the dagger.

Anders sighed, “I can’t believe you.” He snaked his wool sock back on before shoving his feet into the boot and lacing it up tightly with slow deliberation. Slender fingers gently touched the broken tab near the toe, a mournful expression washing over a long face. A tear inexplicably welled up, then receded.

Anders stood up, boots creaking. Fenris had crossed his arms while waiting. Anders took a step forward, looming until he cast a shadow over Fenris from white hair to half-hidden forest green eyes to bared teeth. Anders looked down his nose at his elven companion, wondering how a purposefully cruel act designed to make him give up only made Anders more determined to see the day through. A cloud passed overhead, further deepening the shadow on Fenris and revealing the circles under Anders’ eyes.

Anders did his best to sound nonchalant. “Can we go now?” His best was not particularly good. Anders was spooked, and the words came out more like a whined entreaty than the pointed sarcasm intended.

“By all means.” Fenris gestured to their horses. Anders stepped forward to gather the reins of his horse and give the animal's nose a gentle pat. Fenris was mounted and waiting again by the time Anders settled onto his horse, the new boots releasing that grating creak.

Fenris could not repress a growl. It was the last sound either of them made until well after nightfall.


	4. Cold War Negotiations

The boots creaked again as Anders dismounted that evening well after dark. Fenris was too tired to react with a growl as he had earlier in the day. He did manage to roll his eyes and sigh to himself.

Though the waxing moon provided enough light to ride by, the horses had grown tired eventually. The edge of the forest provided good cover for a short rest. The travelers would wake again before dawn. The tension between them eased in anticipation of a few hours of sleep. Fenris unwrapped some provisions purchased for the road and handed Anders half. Anders picked at hardened bread silently.

Fenris watched the path of white crumbs as they fell to the ground. “Why do you not eat?”

“I’m not hungry.” Anders looked down, a forlorn expression clouding his face. A pair of green mage lights circled above the blonde’s head, spiraling in and out in a gentle waltz.

“You look weak. Force yourself.” Fenris took a large bite in demonstration. He grimaced at the taste but chewed stubbornly. The elf walked several feet and sat comfortably, his back against a large maple tree with red leaves. Anders joined him, leaning against the smooth bark. He let his back slide down slowly until his hindquarters met the ground.

“What’s the point?” Anders sighed. “I’ll still feel empty. Just sick and empty. I’ll toss it back up.” He handed his half of the wrapped provisions back to Fenris, who joined the halves together regretfully.

“Your weakness will slow us down.” Fenris reached over to place a hand on Anders’ knee. “You are not alone.” It was an attempt to give comfort by way of apology and also a reminder of shared obligation.

“I am alone,” Anders whispered. “I’m a thing to you, a burden you carry out of necessity. Nothing more.” One of the mage lights snuffed out, leaving one wobbling light to intermittently illuminate the blonde.

Fenris opened his mouth to respond. He could find nothing to say that would not make things worse. He removed his hand in defeat and placed it on his own extended knee instead.

Anders took the broody elf’s silence as proof that his analysis rang true. Pouting lips drooped into a frown. “You can follow me all you want. But you’re not in my head. You can’t control me like Justice.”

“I wish I could,” Fenris responded without thinking. Hearing himself, he clarified quickly. “I would make you eat and sleep. I would share your guilt. I would heal as you have healed me many times.” The elf smirked. “I would have stopped you from wasting coin on your precious riding boots.”

There was no energy left for anger, so Anders smirked in return. “Just can’t let it go, can you?” The elf shook his head. A moment passed that birthed a shared understanding. Anders voiced it aloud. “Take the damn boots if that’s the price. I’m tired of being alone with my thoughts.” The mage’s voice grew weary, quieter with every word. “I’m just… so tired.” With that, the last mage light extinguished itself. Anders curled into a ball facing away from Fenris. Exhausted beyond bearing, he dropped fast asleep.

The elf finished eating. He returned the food wrapper to his horse’s pack and pulled out a thin blanket. He draped it over Anders before finding a spot nearby to sprawl on his back. He remained uncovered but in full armor. The elf asleep watching over the mage’s curled body, all feathers and boots, as it slept.

The next morning, Anders awoke with his face inches away from the elf’s hair. They had moved closer in the night, the chill of the late hour enticing them to share their body heat and the blanket. The morning sun now warmed Anders’ skin, a steady presence compared to the birds chirping intermittently in the trees. Hearing the warrior’s slow breathing, he lifted his fingers up to tentatively touch the snowy locks.

The strands were as fine as rabbit’s hair. Afraid to press his luck, Anders swallowed and removed his hand. He sat up slowly, leaving the blanket behind. Anders was up and on his horse before Fenris awoke. He let the horse’s clomping hooves wake the elf. The lanky warrior gave his muscles a slow stretch and stood. He replaced the blanket in his horse’s pack. They returned to their travels without another word.

A vulture sat perched in the maple tree above, having watched the pair all night without blinking or making a sound. After observing them setting out without incident, it gave up and winged its way home.


	5. An Uneasy Truce

The horses grew increasingly tired as the day wore on. As the galloping gentled to a brisk trot, the two riders resigned themselves to travelling side by side. The idyllic scenery lost its novelty even as the grass grew a more vibrant green. The exhaustion of the night before having passed, verbal sparring resumed. 

“Oh, come on,” Anders urged. “We’ve been riding for two days without much rest. You won’t let us bathe in the open by day - too dangerous. And it’s too blasted cold at night. It’s the perfect solution.”

“It could draw attention.” They disagreed on what to do after reaching a landmark spotted a mile ahead. The sound of rushing water could be barely discerned between the clopping of horse’s hooves. Ahead, a smaller river fell down a two story tall cliff into a small inlet before meandering into the Minanter River. The river’s main branch absorbed the incoming water and then continued forward with renewed vigor.

“It does draw attention, and that’s exactly my point.” The mage steered to draw the two horses close together, pointing out the terrain ahead as he spoke. “People will be watching the waterfall, not looking upstream at a pair of teeny tiny dots where our heads are barely above the water.” He finished by pointing out the copse of trees halfway upstream where the horses could rest without being seen.

The musky smell of oak and elfroot relayed news of the sweat Fenris couldn’t see on his companion’s brow. The human had proved himself to be less than fully adapted to warm weather. The midday sun pounded relentlessly on this day. Even the horses smelled. Though the worst of the heat had passed an hour ago, the afternoon sun failed to offer much relief. The smell of Anders remained pungent in the air.

Fenris shifted the reins he held to one hand. He turned the other hand palm up to examine beneath his metal gauntlets. A film of black grime had collected in the lines that Isabela once used to tell Fenris his future. She had remarked that she’d never seen a lifeline that broke early only to resume again. Fenris wondered whether the lifeline on Anders’ palm also broke into two parts. More likely, Fenris mused, the fool mage had sweated his lifeline away entirely. Perhaps the life taken from Fenris’ palm was the same life Anders used to survive another day. It brought new meaning to the term borrowed time.

Fenris looked over at Anders’ panting horse, then down at his own horse, considering. A watery drop fell from his eyebrow into his eyes. He was used to hot weather, but he even he was sweating this day.

“Fine. But we go far downriver from the horses. And nowhere near the waterfall.” Fenris wiped his brow and pointed to a break in the hills where they could enter the river without drawing too much attention.

“Oh, thank the Maker. I call first!“ Anders tapped his heels against his mare gently, spurring her to a gallop as he made a whoop of delight. “Perhaps now you won’t smell like a mabari,” he quipped.

Fenris frowned, considering whether the mage may have a point. He ran his tongue above his upper lip and drew it back to taste the salt of his own sweat. He considered sniffing his armpits but decided better of it. Shaking his head in a resigned sigh, Fenris urged his horse forward with a yip and a jerk of his reins.

It was a logical enough decision. For some reason, Fenris’ twisting stomach did not agree with his mind.


	6. The Treaty is Broken

Fenris looked around, confused. Before he dipped his head under water to soap his hair, Anders was in plain sight. Now the fool was nowhere to be seen. Could he have been taken so quickly, so quietly? With his head underwater, Fenris might not have heard. His eyes had been closed to keep out the soap.

With trepidation, Fenris looked back towards the horses. He did not want to risk calling out, for fear that he too was being watched with the intent of a sudden attack. Fenris waded towards the horses, their area of the river being shallower near the bank. Anders’ horse snorted, a signal perhaps that the horse was offended at its lazy afternoon drink being disturbed. Or perhaps the horse intended to signal that it had seen its owner recently. If so, Anders and his attacker would be further along in the same direction.

Fenris continued past, wading back down into deeper water, then deeper yet. He paused as the water rose to his chin, then paddled clumsily to close the distance to the waterfall. He noted there was a cave behind the falling water, one that could not be seen from a distance. It must be where they took Anders. He pulled himself onto the ledge before the cave, inching along the wall to avoid the heaviest cascade. River water ran down his arms, torso, and legs in a refreshing chill that countered warm afternoon air.

After passing the waterfall and adjusting his eyes to middling dark, Fenris first breathed a sigh of relief. Anders was alone, appearing to have foolishly migrated to the waterfall out of pure hedonism. He stood below a second waterfall, this one internal to the cave. A break in the stone above caused the water to spill inside, following a beam of light toward the floor. This created a standing pool of cold water that reverberated, the water’s impact echoing in the cavern where a thin veil of water let in slanted sunlight.

Anders’ head was thrown back, his adam’s apple a thin point in an otherwise perfectly curved line that led to his waist. The muscles in the mage’s arms flexed as he brought his hands from beside his hips to his wet hair, smoothing it back gently. More muscles led from his chest downwards to a concave stomach, water bouncing off tightened skin that showed the strain from years of deprivation in Kirkwall. Anders’ smallclothes had been discarded, revealing an incongruous hardness that created another curve, this one pointing back up as if to complete the circle of Fenris’ gaze. It was almost serene, until…

To Fenris’ abject fury, he spotted another gold ring, one even smaller and less sensible than the one on Anders’ left toe. Fenris’ nose flared angrily, his breathing labored as he clenched his fists at his sides. Oblivious, Anders, moved one hand down to toy with the ring on his cock while the other clenched the back of his neck. A thick lower lip worried itself against half concealed teeth, mouth alternating between desire and relief. Fenris could neither think nor move until Anders lazily opened his amber eyes.

Almond shaped eyes darkened to black upon spotting Fenris, then opened wide. The curving lines ruined into angles. Anders ducked down until the water was high enough to cover his waist. The naked blonde yelled a shocked greeting, his words fuzzy and indistinct as heard from the roaring cave mouth.

Abashed at Anders’ obvious distress and all too aware of his own growing reaction, Fenris felt obligated to play the familiar role of casually peeved travelling companion. Stepping further towards a misty wall, he pointed to his ear, indicating that the falling water’s booming echo rendered him hard of hearing.

Anders doubled his voice’s volume. “I said, can’t a man have any privacy? I was just…”

“I told you not to go near the waterfall!” Fenris yelled back over the thudding water. The mist was invading his nostrils, leaving a mineral taste in the back of his throat. He choked and swallowed.

“It’s a cave, Fenris! Nobody can see in here from outside!” Fenris presumed it was a bonus that this included himself. “Anyway, isn’t it amazing?!” Anders proved his point by dousing his hair in the waterfall near him, pulling his head back out to shake it enthusiastically like a playful puppy. The hair shagged around his face, as dark now as his stubble. Anders kept his lower half covered by water, barely.

Fenris put his hand to his forehead, a distinct pressure coming on. “It’s too cold!” Anders frowned, understanding that he should not expect levity to return so easily after disappearing without warning. Fenris drew back further. The chilly mist was not entirely unwelcome under the circumstances. Anders was smoothing his hair back again, his belly button rising unintentionally from the water. Soon the curve below his spine would follow. Fenris would prefer not to consider points further south, not just now.

Fenris backed away, cursing under his breath. His lyrium brands lit as he neared the waterfall at the cave’s opening. The glowing mist surrounded his svelte figure in an angelic aura for a brief moment before he tamped down the involuntary reaction. They could not risk a light attracting followers. Fenris took a last glance at Anders’ puppy eyes begging for forgiveness. He shook his head angrily. Anders hunched lower until he sat with only his shoulders above water. Fenris belatedly turned and walked back through the waterfall. A cold dousing of water was exactly what he needed to regain equilibrium.

Intentional provocation would have been easier to forgive. If Anders did not learn, it would happen again.


	7. The First Shot is Fired

A half hour later, Anders reemerged from behind the waterfall. He had put his smallclothes back on for decency’s sake. Diving into the cove, he glided fluidly under the river’s half-transparent mirror, surfacing periodically for air. He swam past the horses’ bank, slowing at the spot where he and Fenris had entered the river. Anders walked dripping onto the river’s shore. He squeezed the excess water from his hair.

Fenris sat on a rocky outcrop above the river’s edge. A slow grin spread across his face. A plan had formed itself in the ire that arose as the elf watched orbs of mage light grow apparent behind the waterfall. The fading afternoon sun dipped lower, turning Fenris’ seated figure into a lonely silhouette against orange sky. Observing in secret, Fenris watched as Anders gingerly approached the pile of his belongings. Water dripped down pale skin in the dry air, reflecting the clouds with tints of red and gold.

“What…” Anders looked under his pauldrons, turning around in search of his other clothes, “Where are they? They couldn’t have blown away.” He followed the wind to an outcropping of bushes near a tree, hunting in vain for his coat and trousers. Stopping to shake the water out of his ears, he then looked back at the pile. He walked up to it gingerly, realizing that it been tampered with. He had left the boots on top of the rest to save it all from the wind. Now the pauldrons lay lonely on top of the boots.

Fenris chuckled out loud. Anders looked up, eyes straining to see shining green eyes between white hair and teeth. Fenris’ hair was blown dry, looking like nothing so much as a sunset cloud above twinkling brands peeking around armored hide. The sound of mirth was clear and the reason for it followed.

“You!” Anders pointed to at the figure above him. “You did this. Where are my things?”

Fenris’ laugh died down a bit awkwardly as he took a breath and then sighed. “Your clothes are safe.”

“Safe where?” Anders narrowed his eyes, no longer bothering to look at anything besides Fenris.

Fenris cupped his chin in his hand, tilting his head to smirk. “Never mind that. Put on what you have.”

Anders spun around in every direction as if expecting a party of conspirators to pop from behind bushes. “Are you mad? We’re taking precautions to stay hidden for a reason. I can’t defend myself half naked.”

“Didn’t bother you back at the waterfall,” Fenris pointed out. He stood up gracefully even fully armored, navigating toes first down the rocky outcropping. He grabbed the enormous sword leaning against a slant in the rock and sheathed it cleanly. “I found a sheltering overhang. We camp below it tonight.”

Anders stood still in his confusion, his drying hair glinting darkly red in the dying sun. What kind of juvenile prank was this? Fenris threw a damp towel at Anders, no doubt the same one he’d used to dry himself off. Anders reluctantly ran it across his arms, legs, torso, and back. He tried his best to look defiantly unselfconscious, wrapping the smallish towel around his waist so that the unavoidable slit went up his left leg. Fenris grabbed the tall black boots and shoved them forward. “Put them on.”

It was part of the game. It had to be. Ever since Fenris ripped the decoration from his new boot, Anders expected another confrontation to follow. But who would have the advantage? Placing his bet, Anders shoved a hand into one boot to pull out the sock he had placed inside it. He put on his tall socks and riding boots slowly, wondering whether his clothes would be beneath the overhang Fenris spoke of.

“And this.” Fenris dropped the pauldrons onto Anders’ arms just as the last bow was tied tight. Anders stood up, reluctant, then shrugged and pulled the black feathered pauldrons over his bare shoulders. He walked right up to Fenris, nose inches away as he scrutinized his relentlessly stubborn former rival.

“Happy?” Anders cocked an eyebrow, a lopsided grin turning almost feral as he continued staring.

“Almost,” Fenris replied. He shoved Anders towards the shore line while snatching the towel away.

“Hey!” Anders protested. He was pushed, tripping forward until Fenris just as abruptly grabbed him by an arm and held him at the water’s edge. Anders looked down and across at his own reflection, at a man half clothed in feathers above and leather below, with nothing but pale skin and smallclothes between. Anders self-consciously pushed a wet lock of hair behind his ear. When had he become a thing to be watched, an object with no purpose beyond its appearance? For that was clearly what he was now.

“Do you see?” Fenris’ reflection in the water pointed back at them both. “I hated Justice with every fiber of my soul. But without him to control your impulses, you are half a man.”

Anders turned, choosing offense over understanding. “Or a man and a half, compared to you.” Anders drew himself up defiantly, his posture in the heeled boots turning the pauldrons into a regal mantle.

Fenris snarled openly. “We shall see.” Fenris turned, using the sun’s last light to guide them to a shadowed insert beneath an extended rock shelf, the spot barely visible from the river’s shore. A pile of sticks and twigs stood ready. Anders’ staff lay against one side of the wall. Off to the other side, the horses grazed on the surrounding grass. One set of reins circled a tree between the two horses, each end of the leather line leading to one of the horse’s saddles. In this way, the horses’ saddles were tied to the tree as well as to each other. This tied Anders and Fenris together as well. Neither could leave the overhang in a huff without taking the time to untangle the reins needed to control their own horse.

A few random objects from the horses’ packs were laid out for their night of camping. Anders’ clothes were nowhere in sight. The sun dipped below the horizon, rendering the surrounding landscape dark.

This site had been chosen and carefully prepared for their arrival. Yet Anders did not feel welcome in it.


	8. Terms of Engagement

Silent tension reigned as the two travelers entered the rocky hollow, one figure fully armored and the other conspicuously half shod. Anders worried his hands in the increasing cold. Fenris unsheathed his sword and set it against a cliff wall beside the mage’s staff. As he turned his back, Anders motioned with his hand to light the campfire. He conjured a small breeze that fanned the flames while drying his hair. Fenris’ shoulders went stiff, but his expression when he turned around showed no outward response.

The elf watched the fire blaze higher, shoulders relaxing when the conjured breeze dissipated. He placed a dented pot on the growing flame. The pot was already filled with cut vegetables, water, and spices. 

From Anders’ experience in Kirkwall, Fenris’ cooking contributions always resulted in a stew of the same rough consistency and taste. It would be adequate enough after a hard day’s ride. After a thoughtful pause, Fenris retreated from his crouched position by the fire and stood. He paced, already agitated as he anticipated speaking. Anders stood dumbfounded just inside the fire’s circle of light and warmth.

The elf’s baritone voice took on an air of impatient authority, this overlaying a flustered trembling audible only to someone like Anders who had learned to search out finer details. “You will pay attention, mage. I will only explain this once. We run from the Chantry and the Templars, from misguided mage followers and agents of common law. But you are not the only one danger follows.” Fenris stopped and sighed, trying to regain his composure. He was unaccustomed to broaching new topics at length.

Anders was similarly uncomfortable, opting to sit on the opposite side of the fire for the time being. He could not remember hearing the warrior string so many sentences together at once. It was unsettling. The two exchanged a wary glance. The elf continued pacing. “I run from Tevinter magisters, the Fog Lords of Seheron, and the Qunari Ariqun.” Anders opened his mouth to speak, but the elf cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You do not need to know why. I would prepare you for what may come.” 

This, at least, seemed to put them back more on solid ground. If this was to be a training session of sorts, Anders was a fast learner. He gave an outward sigh of relief, though one hand twisted in the rings still on his right boot. Fenris searched his pack of cooking supplies and fished out a large wooden spoon. “You can guess your fate at the hands of magisters or tribal warriors. But you do not understand the ways of the Qun.” Fenris stirred the stew as it grew warm, folding the spices in to form a burbling broth.

“Were we captured together, the Qunari would ship us to the nearest compound. I would be stripped from your sight upon arrival. You should not hope to see me again.” The elf inhaled the stew, eyes glazing over in the steam as his voice’s tone became nonchalant again. “You would be taken to Ben Hassrath for reeducation in the ways of the Qun. If you foolishly acted out, you would be killed. If you played along, the Ben Hassrath would take you to Tamassran to evaluate your proper role in society.”

Anders interrupted. “And I would be made a Sarebaas. I get it, Fenris.” Anders didn’t bother to disguise his petulant scowl, lips pursed as if they were already sewn shut. He found it hard to believe all this nervous energy was expended to retread old ground. As if to confirm his theory, Fenris’ face reddened.

“No, you don’t see the half of it!” Fenris visibly snapped, shoving the wooden spoon into the pot hard enough to lose his grip. Cursing in Arcanum, he retrieved the spoon. ”Another fate awaits you that makes the life of Sarebaas seem a blessing. That is, unless you really are as depraved as you seemed in Nevarra’s brothel.” The last word a growl, Fenris’ breath caught as he remembered their recent past.

Anders broke the elf’s reverie by clearing his throat with a lopsided grin. “And if I am that depraved?”

“If so, then I deserve to know before the Qunari come. You owe me that much.” He determinedly stirred the stew, coating the vegetables in broth as a comforting smell arose. Finished, Fenris propped the spoon against the inside of the pot with the handle past the edge. He covered the dented pot with a lid.

Fenris caught Anders’ eyes with a piercing glower. Mouth set, he pointed to Anders’ smallclothes. “Off.”

Anders shifted anxiously where he sat. A lack of trust wrote itself across his brow. “… Why?” The mage investigated deep malachite eyes that seemed determined to hide their true intent. He searched in vain.

Fenris kept his voice restrained, almost bored. “I must demonstrate my point if you are to understand.” When this did not result in the desired response, Fenris leveled a piercing stare at the half dressed blonde, looking him up and down, causing goosebumps to reveal the lie hidden deep beneath Anders’ reluctance. The elf’s red tongue darted out, a thin point licking across his upper lip. After a full minute of suffocating scrutiny that made Anders fold in on himself, he remembered to breathe normally again.

Anders shook his head ruefully. Fenris waited silently. Finally Anders put one hand to his smallclothes but hesitated. It was entirely unclear whether this was a conversation, a confrontation, or an encounter.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Must I drag you back to your reflection to remind you why this is necessary?” He gestured towards the river bank. Anders pondered the water, his sense of self flowing out with it.

Looking away with a blush, Anders slipped off his smallclothes quietly and laid them aside. Fenris’ expression vacillated between lust and disapproval, as if Anders had already failed a crucial test. The blonde was now found to be wanting in every possible sense of the word. The long limbed elf turned his back and undressed until all that remained were tight leather leggings, metal gauntlets, and a utility belt loose on his waist. Anders followed shining lines of lyrium with his eyes as they trailed down Fenris’ back and disappeared behind a dark waistband. Fenris turned, exposing the lines on his chest, and leered at Anders’ open gaze. Anders felt his outward curiosity get the better of him, his cock soft but twitching.

Anders tilted his head gently to one side to indicate his readiness to continue. Fenris grunted smugly.


	9. Line Drawn in the Sand

Fenris sat on a raised rock ledge a few feet away from the campfire and patted the space beside him to invite Anders over. With only a slight pause, Anders scooted over and sat half an arm’s length away.

White hair covered green eyes as Fenris fished in his belt pouch, unclipping the belt buckle that held it in place. The elf removed the row of connected rings he had cut from Anders’ left boot as well as the dagger sheathed on the belt. Tossing the belt aside, he concentrated on the row of brass rings. He cut each ring free and let the leather tabs between them fall below the ledge. He looked as nonchalant as if he were chopping more vegetables for the stew. Fenris’ forehead wrinkled as he gathered his thoughts.

“You fear being made Sarebaas.” Snip, went the leather tab as cut threads released a metal ring into the elf’s palm. “But you are already Sarebaas.” Snip. “A dangerous thing.” Snip. “You are already too dangerous,” Snip. “for your own good.” Snip. Anders let a frown cross his face, disappointed at being lectured after agreeing to disrobe. The blonde pulled his knees up against his chest and crossed his legs.

Fenris stared pointedly at the hastily concealed lap. “You will give access without question, or this lesson is over.” He gathered the rings into a small pile in his hand, inspected them, and threw the smallest two and largest three casually aside. “You are clearly desperate for attention. Now you shall have it.”

Anders gaped. “One of us has gone mad,” he proclaimed. “I thought it was me, but now I’m not so sure.” Fenris answered with a warm rumble, an almost evil laugh that vibrated the hairs on Anders’ neck. He leaned over to put the knife back in his utility belt, then leaned back, all without breaking eye contact.

Fenris gently took Anders’ knee and pushed it aside, then took his shoulders and pulled Anders’ over so that the mage’s back leaned on the elf’s straightened chest. With a hand on Anders’ hip to encourage him to stay still, Fenris took a ring and placed it gingerly on the mage’s cock. It went less than an inch over the head before stopping. Fenris threw it aside with the other discarded rings. For someone with such carefully measured motions, the elf’s hand on Anders’ hips was rough, calloused, and hard.

Anders smirked. “If this is some kind of pissing contest where we compare size, I don’t see the point.” Fenris snorted. Their encounter in Nevarra clarified that size was hardly the important factor to Anders.

“As I said, this is a lesson. Let us assume that the Qunari came in numbers and we proved unable to defeat them.” Fenris selected another ring, then discarded it after it slipped immediately down to curling hairs that glittered gold in the firelight. Anders’ body began reacting to the unconcerned touches. Between the casual tone of Fenris’ voice and the almost clinical motions of his hands, Anders found himself neither embarrassed nor self-conscious. He was simply curious, and more so every minute.

“However improbable, assume you were not using magic during our capture.” Another ring slid nimbly over the gentle curve, this one fitting a tad snugly at the base of Anders’ cock. Fenris placed this aside on his knee before selecting another ring from the dwindling pile. Anders was mostly hard by this point.

“Even after capture, you did not break to heal or attack our captors or even to warm yourself on a cold night. A paragon of restraint, compared to your usual self.” Fenris snorted, putting one last ring on, this being slightly larger than the one resting on his knee. This slid on with barely enough tension to stay fast on the base of Anders’ cock. Fenris nodded in satisfaction, dropping the remaining rings. He thumbed Anders’ shoulder to encourage him to sit up fully. When Anders lingered without moving, Fenris pushed hard on his back. Anders let an insistent hand guide the small of his back until he sat fully upright.

Anders turned around to face Fenris with pouty lips and entreating eyes. “Is this really necessary?” If his own honey eyes looked distraught, the mixture of anger and concern that looked back was worse. In answer, Fenris bent down and placed gauntleted hands on the toes of Anders leather’ boots. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly slid his palms up both riding boots. Upon reaching the knees, he calmly pushed the legs apart, sparing a glance downwards. He looked back up, his nostrils flaring, as he curled his hands around thighs just above the line of leather. The gauntlet points rested gently on bare thighs.

“Yes, for you would not last 30 seconds with the Tamassran before ruining your life. Honestly, Anders, how long would you last in the face of temptation? A minute? Two?” Anders looked down and saw that the smooth brass ring was now firmly held in place by his straining erection. The answer was apparent.

“Imagine your mind invaded with one hedonistic image after another, with promises of endless days of fine food, aged wine, silk sheets, hot baths, sucking and fucking your way through an army of Qunari warriors… nimble Ashaad, commanding Sten, muscled Karashok…”

Anders let out a breath he hadn’t realized he held. His cock throbbed, the ring a palpable presence.

“You would be made Uthenkaari – one who forever offers, or one who gives of himself. It is a rough translation.” Fenris ran a hand along Anders’ feathered pauldrons before returning it back to the thigh.

“You would be carried on strong arms to a welcoming door marked with the symbol of a snake eating its own tail.” The hand trailed to the brass ring to check its fit a final time, then up to finger the tiny ring near the tip. “A celebration would be held in honor of your good fortune. You would soon be half drunk and half drugged on herbal vapors, carried to a bed fit for an Orlesian prince and quietly disrobed.”

Anders found himself wishing for more touching. He breathing had grown so labored that he needed to take a shallow breath every third word. “Well that… doesn’t sound… so bad, does it? So far?” Anders looked back in his mind’s eye at the Qunari he had seen, all strong and handsome in their beastly way.

“Perhaps not,” Fenris admitted. He pulled lightly at the ring and hummed as it pulled the foreskin tenderly upwards. Anders closed his eyes as Fenris turned the ring this way and that in curiosity. A thick drop of precum bubbled forth. Fenris gathered it on his fingertip and brought it to his mouth to taste.

“Mmm,” the elf noted appreciatively. He closed his eyes. “By the time you saw your first cock, you’d be drooling from both ends. If the Arishok wished it, he would be the first to receive your services.”

“My… services?” Ander gulped, imagining the size and strength of the Arishok Hawke had slain in a duel years ago in Kirkwall. The Arishok’s successor would no doubt be even larger and more formidable.

With an angry growl, Fenris grabbed Anders by the pauldrons, spun him around, and pushed him down. Anders ended up over Fenris’ lap, his face aimed down at a pile of discarded black tabs and brass rings. He shivered at the sinuous sound of a long line pulled across rock and dirt. A metal clank rang out.

Fenris noted the trancelike effect his words created for Anders. He reached inwards to find more words to weave into a tempo that Anders could follow with hips that now ground onto his leather clad legs. “No bunking with others on a hay stuffed mattress like a common whore for you. No sharing your off hours in a tavern’s back room with waifish elf and buxom Qunari bitch. You would have your own inn. Near the seat of the Triumvirate itself. You would forget me entirely. Forget everything you ever were.” 

With a shock, Anders felt a stripe of pain across his back. He jerked involuntarily. Fenris’ only response was to adjust his legs so that Anders’ throbbing erection nestled neatly between dark leather trousers. Anders could smell the leather in the foreground, with scents in the background of cinnamon and char.

“Most humans object to a Qunari in their bed, but the fair skinned folk of the Anderfels are presumed strong of build and weak of mind. Ask any Qunari, or even a Tal Vashoth.” Again, a hard sting along Anders’ back attested to the truth of Fenris’ appraisal. The thwacking sound reverberated against the rock wall. “There will be no objection from the Besrathari teacher, seeing that you cannot breed. The Tamassran need only determine whether your spirit is open enough, and weak enough, to serve as Uthenkaari.”

Thwack. The third blow struck Anders on his rear, the swing’s force adjusted to make it no less painful.

“You, Anders, are entirely too weak.” Fenris ran his fingers along fresh red marks on alabaster skin. The implement of pain flopped aside as he did so, revealing itself to be one of the horse’s reins. Fenris had it folded over into a strap, much as an angry father would double his belt to punish a belligerent child. After inspecting the marks, Fenris gave a satisfied murmur. He returned the reins to his swinging hand.

“You would fall into a routine of bathing, service, sleep, and then repeat.” Thwack. “Should you show interest in the passing of time, a reed of scented air would be passed to your lips.” Thwack. “And you would Forget and Serve.” Thwack. Fenris paused momentarily, tucking Anders’ hair behind his ear as he leaned forward. The improvised lash caressed Anders’ back and rear, accompanied by a growl. Anders found himself wondering if there would be a pop quiz later. Perhaps. He tried his best to pay attention.

“Within days, you would find you no longer wished to speak.” Thwack. This last pulled an arch from Anders’ back, in part as he realized that this was the longest Fenris had ever spoken to him without interruption. This both proved the point and startled Anders with the certain knowledge that he was playing a losing hand in this forsaken game of theirs. Fenris responded with an appreciative sigh at Anders’ arching. The elf shifted and squeezed his legs just enough to give Anders’ cock a gentle rub.

“What need has Uthenkaari for politics or history?” Thwack! “When yesterday is the same as today and the same as tomorrow?” Thwack, thwack! The lashes were growing harder, though still not hard enough to break skin. “You would entertain the Arvaraad as his Sarebaas stood silent against the wall.” Thwack, thwack! The lashes were beginning to cover the same ground repeatedly, the sting growing into a warm throbbing pain that turned to heated pleasure. Anders squirmed and blushed in embarrassment.

“So strong would you find the bond between Arvaraad and Sarebaas…” Thwack! “that, should you perform your service well,” Thwack! “the Sarebaas would soil its smallclothes,” Thwack! “in excitement it could neither feel directly nor understand.” Thwack, thwack, thwack! Anders wantonly pushed his hips into the lash before grinding his cock along Fenris’ suddenly closed legs. He heard a keening whine and considered that someone, perhaps that Qunari Sarebaas, should be embarrassed at his lack of restraint.

The reins dropped from Fenris’ hands to the floor below Anders’ face. Anders felt a half dozen tiny needles along the base of his spine. No, eight. Ten, one for each finger. The pinpricks trailed up his back, sending a tidal wave of heat from Anders’ groin up his back to his neck and searing into his brain. He squeezed his eyes tight, bright white light overtaking his senses along with pleasure and a ringing song of bright metal. Anders felt his orgasm upon him, his entire body poised for release. Yet it did not come.

Fenris ran his palms along the red scratches that stood just short of welling into bloody lines. The pain was pure pleasure now. Anders was floating above the ledge, held in place only by Fenris’ hands. He was only dimly aware of strained muscles as Fenris guided him up onto hands and knees on the ledge. Fenris’ lyrium branded hands moved like silk sheets, one to gently rub the welts on his back while the other dipped below to grasp his cock. One stroke. Two. Three. Tears welled up as Anders suffered unbearable pressure. It started in his balls and reached out to tighten every muscle in his body. Yet he did not come.

Anders attempted to raise his head to demand release. It was roughly shoved back down. As his head dropped, he spied the hard cock outlined in Fenris’ leggings. Anders realized that his own erection was not the only one grown large with need. This was torture, but it was a shared torture. Anders found his shoulders shaking in laughter while his tears fell to the ground. Fenris stroked him with special attention to the ring on Anders’ cock and ran a gauntlet’s points along his pale, trembling ass. Fenris leaned close and lowered his voice. “You are learning. Good.” It was perfect. It was sublime. Anders did not come.


	10. Temporary Stalemate

After over a minute of waiting for more stimulation, Anders opened his eyes. He looked down at his cock, now enlarged and reddened from the teasing and stroking and from the restraint of the brass ring’s pressure at its base. Surely Fenris would take pity now and allow release. But no, the elf extracted himself from Anders with a firm push. He reached for the discarded utility belt. The mage was left to curl into a ball on the ledge as Fenris removed a small vial of red dust and another of thick yellow liquid.

The elf moved to the pot and sprinkled half the dust inside. He took the spoon and stirred, breathing deeply as an exotic smell emerged that promised a spicier repast than Fenris’ usual bland stew. Fenris’ eyes glazed over briefly as he considered how best to continue the tale he wove of Anders’ capture. He emitted a pleasant hum, amused by the novelty as the blonde twitched in response to his baritone.

He resumed speaking as he returned the vial of spice to his utility belt. “After weeks or months with the Qunari, you would no longer care about your own release. On any given day, you would come on many occasions.” Fenris grinned wickedly as Anders raised his head sadly at a description that could hardly be further removed from his current situation. “With no need to fear neglect, it would be the release of others you grew to breathe like air,” he teased.” Your purpose in the Qun would be to embody the perfect ecstasy of others, not to receive, but to give. Only upon learning this would you become a true Uthenkaari, one who forever gives of himself.” Anders dropped his head back down with a whimper.

Anders then watched in pained silence as Fenris replaced the pot lid and removed his gauntlets. The elf reached inside the gauntlets to remove thick metal bracelets that were designed to keep the gauntlets secured during battle. Fenris smiled at Anders as if in reassurance and placed the cuffs on the mage’s own wrists. Anders frowned in concern. This did not signal a turn towards compassionate release.

Fenris made reassuring shushing sounds as he guided Anders back to a seated position. The elf knelt down before Anders and moved his unshorn hands to the mage’s pauldrons. He petted the feathers like a cat, petted Anders’ hair likewise, then drew a finger from the delicate metal sun on Anders’ forehead down his nose and past his lips. Anders felt the urge to meet the finger with his tongue but instead closed his eyes in passive resignation. He was rewarded when Fenris hummed, letting his fingerpad linger there. The mage opened his eyes to stare into viridian pools so relaxed and contented that it was frankly startling coming from someone who seemed perpetually agitated in his presence.

The lyrium lined finger continued past stubble down the pale neck to the hollow between the collar bones. Upon reaching the brass chain that held the pauldrons in place, Fenris gently traced the chain’s length. He unclasped one side and then the other. He attached one of the clasps to the bracelet on Anders’ left wrist. He then turned Anders’ body to sit cornered on the ledge and pulled the wrist gently behind the blonde’s back. Fenris pulled the mage’s right wrist back too and ran the chain through the ring on that bracelet. The chain went back through the left wrist’s ring again before returning to clasp to the right. This wrists were bound a hand’s length apart, a confining and slightly uncomfortable distance. 

Someone said, “Please.” It was surely not Anders. It didn’t sound like Fenris. Whatever the source, Fenris made another gentle shushing sound. He slowly removed the pauldrons from Anders’ shoulders. The elf then reached back and removed the leather strip holding back Anders’ hair. He ran his lyrium branded hands across the silky locks, bringing them forward to frame the long face with downcast eyes. Fenris stroked flaxen blond hair that twinkled with bursts of strawberry in the firelight. Fenris’ fingers dropped lower to run through the sparse curly hairs on Anders’ chest. There was a look of wonder on his face as Anders looked up. Despite the incongruity in the midst of such a strange scenario, they both smiled.

“Beautiful. And I would never see it again, were we captured by Qunari. I would be a warrior untrusted in battle, placed on the front lines to await certain death. It would be a miracle if I survived to find you again. The things I would have to do…” The elf looked down at his hands, contemplating, before using them to grab Anders’ biceps. “Yet I would try. I would damn myself trying. If I reached you at last only to find you too addled to recognize me, it would…” Fenris put his head to Anders’ chest “ break me.” Fenris pushed himself into an awkward hug. The warrior’s grasp tightened as he emitted a possessive growl.

Anders could not move his arms to return the hug. This made his chest ache in sympathy with Fenris’ head upon it. He felt his nose itching and sniffled lightly. Fenris pulled back. He lifted a finger to Anders’ face and came back bearing a single tear. He offered it to Anders’ mouth. Anders took it and sucked the fingertip in too, tasting salt and sweat together. Fenris pushed the finger in up to his knuckle. Anders’ cheeks hollowed, and his eyes met dark pupils of a size he had never considered possible before.

Fenris’ mouth hung open for a moment. Pulling back, he removed his leggings and small clothes. Dark skinned muscles rippled as he moved, newly sweaty skin and lyrium brands reflecting firelight together. Bending over briefly, Fenris pulled a soft blanket from a pack nearby. He laid the blanket on the ground and lowered Anders on it with a hand behind his head out of caution. Anders wriggled until his back arched to give room to his trapped arms. He looked up at Fenris with shining eyes. The lyrium brands did not go everywhere, but nearly so. They flickered in the firelight, a hypnotic dance upon a still figure that loomed infinitely tall before him. Anders swallowed, realizing he did not care where this led anymore.

“Any humble Karasaad or Athlok who would dare seek your favor would ply you with shiny trinkets,” Fenris offered. He leaned forward, elven cock swollen with need, and reached behind Anders’ back to check the chain against the metal cuffs. “They would offer you scraps of exotic clothing,” Fenris ran his hand along the riding boots, “or they would bring scented oils and plead their case.” He fingered the vial of yellow liquid before placing it nearby. Anders inhaled the pot’s steam, now exotic and appetizing.

Anders pulled against the cuffs, knowing he would be on his knees with his mouth hovering over the elf’s heavy cock by now were it not for his confining position. Fenris’ mouth quirked into a wicked grin. He picked the reins back up from where they lay on the ground. He threaded the strap around Anders’ neck, wrapping it around like a choker. After making a full circle of leather with the straps pointing forward, Fenris made adjustments until the two ends were of equal length. Fenris slid his palms under Anders’ knees to guide them toward the mage’s chest. Anders’ back bowed as he breathily complied.

“You would share these gifts with your visitors, however briefly, in your main parlor, before you took your chosen one to bed. Again.” Fenris pulled one strap down and threaded it through the pull tab near the bow on one tall black boot. “And again.” He threaded the other strap through the pull tab on its matching boot. ‘And again.” He twined the reigns around Ander’s knees and pulled both reigns tight, forcing Anders’ knees further towards his head, his back arching upwards. Fenris took the ends of each strap and neatly clasped the reigns back to the makeshift collar he had made around the mage’s neck.

“You might look for me, but I would never come.” Fenris pulled at the reigns, and Anders bucked in response. The leather straps slid across Anders’ nipples with a delightful chafing. The collar on his neck grew tighter, though the clasps pulled the opposite direction and preserved needed blood circulation. “You would be like a caged songbird.” Fenris uncapped the vial and spread half its contents on his fingers. “Precious but trapped.” Fenris leaned forward and slid one finger inside. He leaned back to Anders’ ear, his voice a rumble. “If you liked, you could close your eyes and pretend it was me.”

Anders closed his eyes and writhed, the bonds both constraining and freeing. Fenris watched with his own eyes half closed, his own breathing sped. He added a second finger and was rewarded with a series of moans, one for each stroke. He began stretching, seeking and receiving increasingly urgent pleas for more. Fenris hesitated, then pushed forward with three fingers. He angled his fingers this way and that, probing until he found what he was looking for. Anders’ steady moans turned to husky screams.

“In a world without love, where marriage and family are forbidden, you would be the pinnacle of release,” Fenris pumped his fingers in time with his words. “You - the ideal reward for as many as your heart and body would allow.” It now became a chant, words released from Fenris’ mouth before he recognized thinking them. Fenris watched Anders ride another wave of near release. He slowly slid his fingers from Anders’ twitching hole. Anders was shaking his head, screams becoming whines. His head thrashing, he fell to sobbing before finally finding his voice again. “No, no, please. Please don’t stop. I… I need… more.” Fenris poured the remaining oil over Anders’ cock but did not touch, watching it twitch.

Fenris ran his oiled hand along his swollen cock to provide more lubrication while he positioned himself behind the blonde. Grabbing a knee in either hand to pull the boots apart, Fenris placed the head of his cock at the flexing entrance, taking a deep breath as Anders held his. Then with perfectly contained force from powerful legs and an iron will, he slid himself home a millimeter at a time. Anders made unintelligible noises as he hit another plateau, painfully aware of the oil dripping down his shaft.

“You would be whore in deed but never in society’s eye. For the Qunari, you would be a holy thing, a shaman and a seer.” Anders was bucking in his restraints again, desperate for movement. He dimly registered that a pool of precum and oil gathered on his stomach. Mercifully, Fenris began moving. The pace was deliberately set to the bare minimum Anders could allow without bucking in lust and need.

“You would never be more than half dressed by law, and never dressed to any degree more than half the time.” The pace picked up, slowly, slowly. “Your face would be shaved daily, your muscles soothed nightly. Your hair would never meet a pair of sharp scissors again.” Fenris bucked forward with a start, teeth bared. Anders opened his eyes, raising an eyebrow. Even in his haze, he recognized a weakness.

“I wonder how long it would grow,” Anders goaded. Fenris’ hips jerked forward, going faster now than strictly necessary. Anders egged him on with a rasping honey voice, made half of speech and half of wanton panting. “Long. Longer. Past my shoulders. Longer than you can imagine.” Fenris stopped abruptly, his cock twitching as he resisted going over the edge. With a huff, he released the boots and fell forward so that his weight rested on his arms, impaling Anders now from a different angle.

Fenris smirked, catching Anders’ eyes, triumphant in his show of control. “Really? Does my imagination not satisfy you so far?” Anders pushed his face into Fenris’ shoulders, both to hide his blush and to ride out another peaking wave. Even without the friction, he felt Fenris’ cock widen to a size he did not expect. He no longer tried to imagine what a Qunari’s cock would be like. He could feel it inside him.

Fenris grabbed a giant clump of Anders’ hair until the mage’s mouth hung open. The elf emitted a prolonged growl almost like a purring tiger. Fenris was beginning to struggle with control. Anders hoped this meant sweet relief was on it way. They rode as one together, chests heaving in growing sync. Anders had admired the warrior’s strength many times, marveling that it came in such a trim package. He renewed his appreciation as the elf held onto control over and over again by pausing for mere seconds at a time. Anders felt his hands tingle and his shoulder muscles strain, a new pain that made him writhe and keen.

Fenris dropped his head at last, gathering strength before he continued on. A determined scowl on red lips, he grabbed Anders’ hips with one hand and used it as leverage to push himself with renewed force. His next sentences came with the same rhythm as his strokes. “Then, at last, after ten years of service, a pair of Satanari would drag you out by the arms while you wailed in grief.” Fenris stopped moving, his eyes angling up as they wrinkled in mirth. Anders responded by screaming in frustration. If Fenris thought he could end this round of their little game prematurely, Anders thought, he was dead wrong.

This would not end in tragedy tonight, he swore, neither imaginary nor real. Not for either of them.


	11. The Battle is Won

Anders’ eyes refocused as he listened to the sudden plight of his fictional future self. Fenris described him ten years hence, so distraught at his idyllic livelihood reaching its end that he broke into tears and wails. Fenris’ unorthodox performance of his story also crashed to a halt, leaving the mage aching and desperate. Anders answered Fenris’ wolfish face with one by turns pained, wry, and finally glowering.

“You are not stopping there,” Anders admonished. His voice came out haughty and bordering on hoarse.

“I’m not, am I?” Fenris chuckled, giving his hips a roll, eliciting a shudder from the blonde beneath him. For all that his movements were strong and sure as ever, Fenris’ sweat marked him as growing winded.  
.  
“I won’t let you.” Petulant, Anders bucked in his bindings. Despite his compromising position, he attempted to push Fenris forward and back with his own body. It was a useless waste of his energy. The elf literally held Anders’ reins and was stronger besides. Still, Fenris tightened a hand on Anders’ hip as he watched the mage extend himself for very little physical reward. The warrior raised a dark eyebrow, unmoved in his good humor. His grunts admitted to being a bit impressed at such determined passion.

As the mage’s muscles strained and flexed, he found himself slowly lulled into physical submission by his carefully planned bondage. Try as he might, he could not ignore the persistent intoxication of his arms pinned behind him, the metal cuffs chafing his wrists, the reins draped into a collar around his neck and holding up his knees, and the scraping along the ground of stinging welts. What started as a fight against his bonds became an exercise in gauging their strength and finally a delicious relishing of their contact.

As with most of the night, it was Fenris who took the uncharacteristic role of primary speaker. His deep baritone added an air of inevitability to what otherwise might seem an unconscionable situation to put oneself in. “I assumed from your reactions earlier that you would not see this through.” Fenris’ deadpan harkened back to when the conversation first began. The elf had challenged Anders to be less than fully depraved, to demonstrate enough sense and willpower to refuse the life of an Uthenkaari.

“Damn it, give it to me.” Anders was still too proud to give up, fully unrepentant in his depravity.

“Very well,” Fenris spoke as if agreeing to read one more page of bedtime story to a spoiled child.

When Fenris continued thrusting, it was with an excruciatingly slow speed but with an extra upward push to end each stroke. Anders was being pushed forward along the ground now, the welts on his ass scratching against the blanket. “The Qunari guards would return you to the Tamassran so they might reevaluate your place within the Qun.” Anders was using his arms to push his body up for each finishing thrust. If this pinned his slender fingers beneath his weight, he did not care. Let them go numb. He could feel pressure beginning to build again from the inside out and felt his spine tingling in response.

Fenris continued. “Between being weak of mind and no longer young, you would reject any role they bothered to offer your filthy, entitled self.” Anders now pushed back against those blinding final thrusts, managing to push them both back into their former position. Fenris growled, surprised to be not only challenged but bested by a less taxed competitor. The challenge proved euphoric. Fenris was forced to hold back his own release again. This time it took both hands on Anders’ abdominals to slow the build.

Fenris finally slumped his shoulders, cheek resting on Anders’ chest, his voice thick with sad resignation. “You would be exposed to Qamek. It makes you forget and drains your will. You would end your life as a crazed Viddath-bas assigned to hard labor.” Satisfied that the rocking had stopped, Fenris raised himself up to look straight into Anders’ eyes. He delivered the story’s last twist as if he eulogized a lost soul. “Accustomed to soft sheets and fine food, you would not last long in the mines. You would succumb to exhaustion or die to black lung disease from rotten air.” Fenris knew all too well what it was like to lose your memories, to feel lost and be driven half mad by it. He put all his life’s regrets into his voice.

Anders frowned, unsure why Fenris was determined to take such a dark turn in an otherwise delicious tale. Was the whole thing really true? He shook his head with a confused expression. Fenris for his part drew his lips into a hard line. He waited, just a moment, for his words to sink in. Then he shifted his weight fully onto one arm and slid his free hand between them. Finding Anders beginning to soften, he slowly removed the brass ring. Then he surprised Anders by providing languorous tugs to bring him back to full mast. A half smirk was all the elf could manage in his exhaustion, but his playful tone spoke volumes. “Or you could prevent this fate at the start. You could demonstrate magic to the Tamassran.”

“You…” Had he really described a terrible death just to remove that ring? “You genlock turd!” Anders gaped as Fenris released a low cackle like a triumphant theater villain. Anders pouted. “I can’t believe you. You mad, obsessed, sick little man. Who does…” Anders attempted to pull his hands free, ready to start a fist fight he was certain to lose. But his arms were pinned. “Who makes me…” He bucked his hips in vain to dislodge the warrior. As he writhed in his bonds, the tightness of metal cuffs and leather straps and tightened boots surrounded him with mixed reassurance and titillation. Anders finally rested his head back and stared at the rock outcropping above, giving in with a shiver. “Oh Maker, don’t stop.”

Fenris made one final adjustment. He sat back on his heels, then pushed himself forward so that his knees slid under Anders’ hips. Fenris pulled Anders’ legs onto his shoulders and tested the new angle, sighing when Anders mewled at being caressed in exactly the right spot inside. Fenris could feel Anders’ welts from the lash on his thighs. Perfect proof of corruption. Fenris began to move again, wrapping the reins around his fist so he could use them to deftly pull the constricting pressure this way and that.

“You could reveal your secret instead and spend your days as Sarebaas. Linked to an Arvaraad whose control rod and bond would dictate your every move, your every thought, your every emotion.” Anders now moved in tandem without thought, bucking and rolling with each pull of the reins. “A hedonist like you will find the lack of sensory input… challenging.” Anders’ breath sped to match Fenris’ and his body rolled when the cock inside him jumped. He realized with resignation that despite everything, he would not come until Fenris also found release. He was more than physically bound now, but only he knew it.

“If you wish a life worth living,” Fenris teased, “you must seek an Arvaraad as easily corrupted as you.” Fenris grabbed the reigns and pulled, watching as this caused Anders to arch his back and expose his neck. He continued to relentlessly pound that spot. “I assure you, corrupted Arvaraad are few,” Fenris panted, “among the Qunari.” Anders’ began making desperate caterwauls, his eyes unable to look away. “But, if you requested nicely, I could be made your Arvaraad.” Fenris struggled to keep his motions smooth, trying to force Anders to completion first. “I promise to corrupt us both… completely.” Anders felt his body tense, his senses extending from his groin outwards as if his entire body became a cock with the same sensitivity and need and the same inability to think rational thoughts or display restraint.

“Yes,” Anders agreed in between cries. “Yes.” Fenris gave the reins a strong last pull and stared intently as Anders tensed again. From the forest depths of his eyes, it appeared Fenris felt a sympathetic wave as he watched Anders in his thrall. Yet Anders did not come, and Fenris’ cock refused to pulse as well. This time the elf was the one surprised at his body’s reactions as he approached bliss without release. His hands shook until he regained control. He untangled the reins from his fists and let them drop loose.

“Anders. Anders.” Fenris swallowed, reaching to run his palm along the blonde’s thigh and torso. “Does a life of foregoing your ego as Sarebaas sound so bad?” Anders shook his head in acquiescence. Fenris contorted them both long enough to fumble the brass chain’s clips free from the metal cuffs. He pulled the chain free, a metal note ringing out in staccato as chain links hit the cuff rings one by one. Fenris brought each wrist up to kiss a broken lifeline on each of Anders’ palms. Then he let the arms drop bonelessly to the blanket. He began moving again, taking a leisurely pace while Anders shifted his arms.

Anders was barely able to keep his eyes open. The steady plateau he had climbed while his body became a vibrant organ of need exceeded the pleasure of many orgasms he recalled. And Fenris showed no signs of stopping. “Could you choose…” Fenris growled, his teeth bared. “Choose to give me control? Over your body and mind?” Sweat dripped down Fenris’ long neck. “Yield the care of your soul to me?” Fenris reached forward and placed his hand firmly on Anders’ aching cock, stroking it slowly. Anders trembled, seeing bright spots, hearing lyrium strings. It should push him over, but he could not go alone.

Anders knew Fenris expected him to agree, expected him to beg to be taken over. Something deep in Anders’ psyche would not allow it. Whatever it was, it was akin to the intractable stubbornness that now disallowed his solo release. He rode out the silence, letting Fenris push him further into unending bliss. The tension cut the air as his cock drooled a river of precum over Fenris’ worrying thumb. Anders waited, content to stay in this place however long it took. He no longer desired his own release. He had become Uthenkaari in all but name, his primal soul touching Fenris as his hands reached for his knees.

Fenris’ head fell back. He ran his thumb across the tiny gold ring, stroking faster as he thrust on. This was the edge of madness, and from his expression the elf wanted to jump. If Anders was too unrestrained, Fenris had always battled deep reservations that kept him from opening up. Even now, he remained held back by invisible strings. As he looked into Anders’ eyes, he had the sudden epiphany that Anders would wait for him indefinitely. The pleasure and pain were exquisite to the point of excess. The center could not hold. One or both of them could lose consciousness or collapse if something did not change.

Anders saw now his part in their game. His place was to push Fenris past his internal boundaries. Anders arched and rolled, pulling his legs from Fenris’ shoulder and letting them slide down to the warrior’s back. He then leveraged the strength in his legs to prevent even the slightest stutter in Fenris’ pace. He looked at the shuddering elf and smiled in glazed triumph, knowing he had Fenris where he wanted him. If Fenris was trying to bluff his way to sexual conquest, Anders was about to call his bluff in the best way.

It took a swallow before Anders could speak with a cracking voice. “Fenris…Look at me, sweetheart. Please.” With amber puppy eyes, he spoke Qunari words with the same tone he might use to beg for mercy. “Maraas shokra.” It was not mercy for himself he asked for. Anders stretched long arms up. He pushed his torso into a partial crunch to bring his fingers those last few inches needed to cup Fenris’ chin. Soulful green eyes caught in surprise as Anders repeated it again, “Maraas shokra. You hear me?”

Fenris’ hips shuddered again. Anders’ legs in their tall black boots held strong. Anders explained sweetly as he forced the pace to continue uninterrupted. “You said it years ago to the Arishok. You translated it to Hawke later. I listened. I remember every word.” Anders’ thumb brushed slowly across Fenris’ lower lip. “Only now do I understand.” Anders overflowed with compassion, taking the role of eager student, pressing his revered teacher for extra credit. He kept flexing his legs a little faster than the current pace.

“There is nothing to struggle against.” Fenris translated it again, incredulous wonder in his eyes. The Qun taught each person to know their role, their place in society. Fenris had already determined that his place was to protect the world from Anders and Anders from the world. If keeping Anders safe required him to compromise his perfect control, then so be it. He would give Anders his animal urges as well. Fenris began to growl with every outward breath. He allowed Anders to set their ever increasing pace.

Anders let his thumb stray to Fenris’ upper lip before turning it to his cheek. He sought to trace this moment in his memory for safe keeping. Fenris drew back from the long fingers, his back pulling straight as his hips pistoned at an uncontrolled clip, eyes glazing over and mouth snarling as he floated in limbo. The boot leather creaked as Anders kept the pace speeding forward in a now shared abandon. Fenris’ head dropped, his ears glowing red. For the first time that evening, he was no longer holding back.

Anders pressed his advantage. He unclipped the reins and stretched his body in catlike appreciation. “Mmm. No more struggling. Not for me. Not for you. Not anymore.” He pled with his honey voice like the spider to the fly. “Please, Fenris. Please.” His begging held no shame, only desire and need. Anders placed both his hands over Fenris’ tight grip on his cock. They combined a shared stroking with a tender holding of hands, fingers interlaced together such that it was anyone’s guess who controlled the pace. Anders gave a last smirk as he tightened his internal muscles, increasing friction and pressure on the elf's now highly sensitized cock.

Fenris’ next words came like thunder. “Maraas shokra.” Tension visibly released from Fenris’ body before a sudden backlash overtook him. The lyrium branded body curled inwards, from his dropped head to his arching back to his curling toes. Anders bent himself up to drag all his fingernails up the elf’s back and neck. Fenris’ hips pushed forward a last time as he buried himself as deep as their bodies allowed. Anders was rewarded with the most exquisite deep groan, and he whimpered back. Fenris lowered his eyes to the tiny gold ring, his steady grip moving in a perfect extension of his climax. They pulsed in tandem, Anders spilling in thick ropes while Fenris spent into him in copious shudders.

Infinity slowly became finite again. They collapsed into a cathartic tangle of flesh, leather, and sweat.


	12. An Echo of Warfare

Heads nestled close together while bodies spread out to cool on a soft, sweat soaked blanket. Their breathing slowed from labored to gently strained. Anders finally broke the stillness by reaching for his boot laces. Fenris swatted the hands away and took their place. The elf gently pulled off one boot and then the other, taking the socks with the leather, palms and fingers caressing each leg as it withdrew. 

As they lay back down, the blonde twined his legs around the lanky figure beside him. Green eyes closed in contentment while honey clouded eyes glazed over, staring out towards a distant starry sky. Time passed as thoughts turned together and apart and together again without a need for outward exchange.

“Fenris?” Anders finally found cause to disrupt the calm. He did not turn his head to speak.

“Hrmh?” From the sound of his voice, Fenris was threatening to fall asleep before he heard his name.

Anders had to know before morning. “Is there really such a thing as an Uthenkaari?”

Fenris shifted his head towards Anders but did not fully turn to look. He only opened his eyes a crack. “It is a rumor I heard.” The elf sounded wistful. His honest reflection blended back seamlessly to his usual sarcastic deadpan. “I have never seen a Qunari compound in person. I am sorry if that disappoints.”

Anders pouted, then curled into a ball facing away from the elf. Fenris raised his eyebrows at Anders’ reddened back and ruffled hair. He gave a genuine smile at the blonde’s back. The warrior released a deep chuckle, sympathetic but pleased at pulling off an epic bluff from the smallest grain of reality.

“You manipulative beast!” Anders cursed half-heartedly with drowsy irritation. “Maker’s balls.” The mage rubbed at one eye with his hand, then turned it gently to inspect chafe marks from the cuffs.

Fenris stroked Anders’ hair affectionately. “It was a parable.” He began to gently caress Anders along the arms and shoulders, seeking any available unmarked skin. Anders could feel a sexual tingling wherever touches landed. This went a long way to soothing his ego. The bliss turned his head towards the sky.

“Right,” came the resigned sigh. “It’s a parable where you urge me to sew my mouth shut and hand you my control rod, rather than give my body to legions of foreign men.” By now both their eyes were open, the corners of Fenris’ mouth turning up while Anders’ turned down. “You realize we could have just had a private conversation. ‘Dear Anders, you’re fantastic, really, but do me a favor and don’t be a whore.’”

Fenris’ eyebrows raised as his lips curled into a full smirk. “If I said that, would you have listened?” Anders turned fully onto his other side to face the lyrium threaded elf. Before their eyes met, Fenris reached over and retrieved Anders’ smallclothes to wipe at the various fluids on the mage’s stomach.

“No. I admit it.” The mage looked down, noticing the mess for the first time, and contemplated. “Coming from you, it would be arrogant. I would act out at the next opportunity, probably before the day was out.” He seemed unlikely to engage in petty misbehavior now. He hummed as his stomach gathered goosebumps. With a snarky grin, Fenris collected fluids as high up as Anders’ collarbone.

Fenris dusted over Anders’ glittering chest hairs. “That is why I delivered a parable instead. Consider it… a warning. Something to think on when you next desire to’ act out’.” The elf gave himself a quick wipe and threw the smallclothes to the side, satisfied enough for now. He considered that they’d probably need to bathe again the next morning. Next time, he would keep his companion in plain sight.

Anders grew thoughtful. He now felt every inch of his skin as if it were newly formed. He pulled Fenris’ hand over to his hip and felt pleasurable heat radiating from where it rested idly. He compared this to the destructive path he might otherwise be on. “I really wish you weren’t making sense right now.”

Fenris shrugged amiably. “For what it is worth, you will always be both Sarebaas and Uthenkaari to me. Equal parts dangerous and merciful.” Fenris fondly brushed Anders’ hair back from his face.

“Mrm,” Anders responded. He liked the sound of it. He could almost feel in colors now. “Fenris?”

“Yes?” Fenris smiled as Anders reached out his arm to caress lyrium branded skin in kind. The brands sang back distantly, serene wind chimes as heard from a house on the other side of a steep hill. Anders drew long fingers around the brands on Fenris’ arms and chest, listening to the fadelike harmonies.

“Thank you. For the warning.” Anders smiled sheepishly. The possessive grin he got back tasted like iron.

“You’re welcome.” The conversation finally outlasted Fenris’ initial desire for sleep. He looked back at Anders wondrously tracing the edges of his lyrium brands and found he rather liked the sensation. The thrum of Anders’ Panacea kept his skin healed around his brands before it had a chance to chafe or pull.

Somewhere in the past week, Fenris got past the constant expectation of pain. He mind released the unthinking instinct to protect himself, opening him up to simple touching. It scared him a little, how much he liked it. It was a gift, he knew, that could only be given by a born healer who was completely comfortable in both his skin and his magic. Throughout the evening’s entire events, Anders never once dropped the steady spell that kept the pain from Fenris’ brands at bay. It was proof of what Anders had once confessed, that keeping up the aura was like second nature, and that dropping it felt contrived.

Now the soothing aura pulsed even stronger, more vibrant and deep. Anders’ magic throbbed with his contentment. Fenris was beginning to recognize Anders’ moods from subtle variations in his magic.

Fenris stretched, testing the tiredness in his muscles and finding that pleasant as well. Yawning, he reached over to pull the pot from the fire. “Now sit up before I start to warn you again. You should eat.”


	13. Spoils of War

Fenris brought the large wooden spoon to his mouth gingerly. He held the cooking pot by its handle as if it weighed no more than a teacup. He slurped the broth before eating the more solid contents of the spoon, protecting the leggings and untucked tunic he had put back on as the fire drew lower.

Fenris had fished a normal sized bowl and spoon from his horse’s pack for Anders. He then visited the other horse’s pack and gathered the canteen, spare smallclothes, and the mage’s threadbare nightshirt. Anders shrugged the nightshirt on and pulled the smallclothes on without bothering to stand up.

Anders now sat with his legs crossed, like an attentive child sampling a treat from a trusted guardian. Fenris sat back at a respectable distance to watch with open curiosity as the blonde took his first bite.

“This is good, actually,” Anders admitted. “Even better than it smells.” He inhaled as he gathered another spoonful. “And I’m not just saying that because you shifted my senses into overload.” Fenris merely nodded with a satisfied smile. He leaned over to spoon more stew into the mage’s bowl.

“In return for the meal, you will leave yourself unhealed until tomorrow.” Anders shrugged as he accepted the food, not bothering to question the command. Fenris sat back again and watched the mage eat, following the wide tongue as it lapped, red lips as they opened, a long neck as it swallowed.

“What is this red stuff anyway?” Anders asked. “It’s got a nice kick to it.” Anders gestured towards the canteen propped against one of Fenris’ legs. They began to pass the canteen back and forth as they ate.

“Powdered dragon’s blood,” Fenris answered quietly. “I bought it in Nevarra.” He reached towards the fire, grabbing a stick on the ground and using it to push the wood into a better position to feed the fire.

“Really?” Anders lifted one eyebrow. “I thought we had no spare coin for luxuries.” The question was bound to come, but neither traveler was eager to begin another argument just yet. Amber and green eyes both were drawn to the fire as the flames rose higher, the warmth joining the food in their bellies.

Fenris contemplated before answering humbly. “I… may have exaggerated. In my moment of crisis.”

Anders shook his head ruefully. Still, the pleasant heat grew in his mouth with every bite. He couldn’t repress his moan, eyes glittering as they rolled to the back of his head. Fenris’ toes began gingerly curling one after another against the blanket as he watched the mage eat, like an idle cat’s paws on its owner’s lap. Anders smiled into his spoon, amused that Fenris seemed unaware of his toes’ motions.

It seemed that only a moment passed before Anders looked down to find that his stew was gone. He even checked Fenris’ pot before giving up the hunt for more. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten a full meal without discarding half or giving some away. He took a long last draw from the canteen.

Anders was never sure how much was serendipity with Fenris and how much was careful planning. He was beginning to guess. If the answer was potentially unsettling, he found he didn’t mind the butterflies.

“Thank you. I feel like I can’t say that enough tonight.” Anders half stood to place his bowl and spoon on the rock ledge beside the empty pot. Then he slid seamlessly into Fenris’ personal space. He slipped a hand into the elf’s soft hair, caressing a pointed ear with his thumb. He reached the other hand to the back of the elf’s neck as he leaned from above with plump lips barely open. To his surprise, his forward momentum stopped abruptly. Fenris had placed a palm on his chest to stop the collision of mouths.

Fenris looked perturbed. Anders took this as a sign that he had been going too fast. A momentary look of disappointment preceded a determined smile. Anders dropped the second hand to his own thigh. The first retreated from the ear to a lyrium branded chin. Anders dropped his head lower in submission.

Trying again with a more conservative tactic, Anders lifted the warrior’s chin upwards while puckering his mouth, signaling that he would present only a polite peck on the lips as thanks. Anders closed his eyes to give a show at respecting Fenris’ privacy and leaned up slowly. His eyes opened in confusion when he felt an obstruction on his face. A thin elven finger pushed against his lips hard enough to touch his teeth. It was as if he was being shushed by a very hands-on librarian. Fenris had one eyebrow lifted.

“Are you serious?” Anders pulled back with shocked indignation.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Deadly so. You will respect my limits, mage.”

Anders reviewed the last hour in his head, coming up empty. “I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong?”

Fenris slumped his shoulders with a sigh. “I am not angry.” He crooked his head to the side and gestured amiably. “Come here.” Fenris pulled Anders into a strong embrace that left no room for thoughts of rejection. He caressed the blonde’s back soothingly, then pulled back with an apologetic expression.

“Fenris…” Anders was not fully mollified. This turn of events troubled him. “Why can’t I kiss you?

Fenris stilled. His answer was profoundly voiced. “Some things once done cannot be undone.” The vibrations travelled down Anders’ neck and back to the small of his spine, radiating exhilaration. Their embrace should have been awkward with the taller man in the other’s lap. Somehow they fit together.

“Oh.” Anders extracted himself. He could feel the distance between them even before he drew back. He decided to play his part, to return to their verbal sparring to reassure the warrior that he was unbowed. “You’re back to your cryptic self, I see. Don’t you forget; I’m very persistent. If you don’t tell me what you mean, I’ll be forced to figure out where to spend the rest of our spare coin. Will you ever kiss me?”

“Perhaps,” Fenris intoned with a worried rasp, one side of his mouth quirking upwards. “If you are very good.” He pushed Anders off his lap, careful to ease the mage’s backside gently back onto the dirt.

Anders wore his indignation like a jaunty hat. “What, that wasn’t very good before dinner? It wasn’t totally brilliant?” He spread his arms in a mocking gesture. “Because I’m thinking some new robes would be right up my alley. I look good in red, I’ve been told. There are some alluring new Tevinter styles out.”

“You must be good for a prolonged time,” Fenris played along. “You must convince me to trust you.” The speed with which Fenris changed the subject back from Tevinter robes made Anders grin idly.

“Pah, you’ll never trust me. But I’ll bet I can catch you sleeping. Ooh, I could wake you with a kiss!” The mage let out a happy humming sound, his gaze drifting towards the river as he imagined the stolen kiss.

“You will not!” Fenris placed his palms flat on the ground as if he were ready launch himself in attack. Anders was again surprised by the strong reaction. It was getting hard not to take it personally.

“Really? You sure about that?” Anders goaded, unsure how far to push. “Are you willing to bet on it?”

Fenris considered his odds carefully. “Fine. If you promise not to take advantage, I will answer a dozen questions of your choice.” As Anders considered whether to accept, Fenris thought to add some conditions. “I will answer honestly, but I may phrase my words as I like. Then you will go to sleep.”

Anders scowled. “You don’t get to dictate when I eat and sleep, Fenris. Why only a dozen questions?”

Fenris put the pot aside. “Because my patience grows short. Now you have eleven questions.”

“What? That counted?” Anders crossed his arms in stern accusation. “That’s not fair. I didn’t agree yet.”

“That counted, yes.” Fenris crossed his arms as well. “Ten questions remain.” The warrior smirked.

Ander nodded solemnly. And just like that, the game was back on. It seemed the war would never end.


	14. Countdown to Peace

“Okay, it’s agreed,” Anders smirked. “I get ten questions, and I’d better not waste them.” After Fenris refused to kiss him, Anders could think of little else. He hoped that if he deduced the reason why, he would win some sort of prize. If Fenris admitted defeat, that would be treasure enough for Anders.

“And I may answer how I like,” Fenris reminded him, “so long as my words are true. Afterwards, you must go to bed.” Fenris felt confident that he could provide this opportunity at little risk to himself. With kissing in mind, Anders would not think to ask broader, potentially dangerous questions. If he then asked one later, Fenris could cut the mage off by recalling that he’d had the opportunity and spent it.

“Right,” Anders agreed. “So I can’t just ask you a question you’d prefer not to answer. You’ll deflect. When I asked about kissing before, you said that what’s done can’t be undone. That would imply that everything else that’s happened hasn’t actually done anything. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. I can’t say I’m flattered. But kissing has some special importance to you. It’s… a thing apart.”

Fenris’ face showed no expression. Nothing he had heard so far constituted a question. Anders got up and began pacing around the fire’s last embers. Time wasted could cost him the expression on the warrior’s face as the firelight dropped below his ability to ascertain details. Neither of them would bother to stir the fire back to life at this point, knowing that sleep lay at the other side of their game.

Anders turned and pointed dramatically at the elf. “Did you kiss Isabela?”

“Yes.” The answer was amiable enough, but a thoughtful pause followed. “But it was not the same.”

“Not the same for you, or for her; because of you, or because of her?” Anders rubbed at his chin.

Fenris smirked. “Yes.”

“Oh, come on,” Anders bemoaned. “Don’t you dare count that as an answer.”

“Technically, you asked four different questions. Take my answer as given; I’ll let it pass. This time.” Fenris grew tired of crooking his neck up to follow the pacing apostate. He pushed himself onto the ledge with one hand, brushing a spot clean before sliding into it smoothly.

“Fair enough,” Anders knew better than to push his luck. He resumed his pacing. “So you kissed her, but it wasn’t the same. Because…” He turned to Fenris to watch his face. “You never entirely trusted her?”

Fenris lifted his eyebrows. He worried his mouth as he considered how to respond. “You could say that.”

“So a kiss is something that requires trust, something that must be earned because… “Anders scanned Fenris’ face. He caught the birth of another smirk. “If I ask why, you’ll answer with another riddle.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris agreed. “I give that admission freely. I will not count it as an answer owed.”

“You’d better not,” Anders admonished. He decided to change tactics. “Did you kiss Hawke?”

Fenris looked down before answering simply. “Yes.” He did not sound proud of the fact.

“Really?” Anders looked away himself with a troubled expression. “That’s not a question, by the way. I’m just voicing… surprise.” Anders turned back and waited until Fenris did likewise. “So on your night of passion, you and Hawke sucked face. Right,” he huffed. “Was that the same, or not the same?”

“I…” Fenris grew uncomfortable, a slight blush rising to his face. “It was the same. But it was a mistake. I waited years for Hawke. Yet I should have waited longer. I was too eager and paid the price.” Fenris frowned, brushing a nervous foot against his opposing leg. His big toe momentarily crossed over the nearest small toe as he wiped the dirt off. Then he placed his feet back equidistant on the ground.

Anders showed open sympathy at this. “You trusted Hawke, but you shouldn’t have. Well, I know how that feels.” It was a weakness they’d shared in Kirkwall, one now left behind. “Do you regret it?”

“The kiss?” Fenris tried to distinguish the kissing from the rest of that eventful evening. The blush receded as he untangled his memories and produced an answer. “It haunted me for years. No longer.”

“Hrm, okay.” Anders tried to process this, suspecting it was half raw truth and half deflection. A visiting breeze pushed the firelight down further. The only way to maintain eye contact was to sit within a few feet of one another. Anders picked up the soft blanket and put it around the elf’s shoulders, using this as an excuse to sit nearby. “It gets to you. But you can move on, at least in Hawke’s case.” Fenris nodded.

Anders tilted his head to one side before asking the next question softly. “Did you kiss Danarius?”

Fenris caught his breath and then pulled back visibly. He opened his mouth before closing it again.

“I’m sorry,” Anders rushed with apologetic eyes. “I know it’s sensitive. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Anders leaned back himself, giving a show of providing space, of not wanting to provoke.

“It is fine.” Fenris’ voice was hard, but his face took on a sad wistfulness. Even his hair dropped lower over his eyes before being blown aside again by a gentle breeze. “Yes, I kissed Danarius. Many times.”

“I apologize if I’m prying,” Anders repeated. “It’s not my intention to bring back bad memories.” They watched the fire together for a moment. The crackle of dying embers filled the silence between them.

“Don’t apologize.” Fenris sighed, tension visibly releasing from his shoulders. He popped his neck before sitting back comfortably. “I have never said it out loud before, not even to myself. It is… liberating.”

Anders leaned forward encouragingly. “That’s good, right? It’s… something, anyway.” He placed a hand pointedly on the ledge between them and gave a pleased smile when he felt the elf’s heavy hand reach into his. He twined their fingers together. “Look, I won’t bother to ask if Danarius deserved a kiss. You woke up in horrible pain, which he caused. Yet you believed you owed him. You had no memories of your past. You depended on him for your survival. I doubt trust even figures into that equation.”

Anders showed remarkable understanding for only having heard the story once. “I suppose you grew to regret having kissed him,” he added. Fenris schooled his face into a neutral expression. Anders watched the emotional wall being built and decided to tear it down with kindness. “Do you regret it now?”

“Yes,” Fenris confirmed. The former slave recognized this was an adequate answer for their game. Something about Anders’ fingers gently pressing his convinced him to go further. “I have nightmares to this day. In my dreams, he kisses my breath away. My will follows, so I kiss him back. He takes my blood through my mouth. I cannot pull away. The lyrium flows out after. I feel my heart stop. And then I die.”

It was a confession of sorts, the first time he admitted that Anders was not the only one troubled by bad dreams. He did not expect to look away from memories playing out in the fire to see the mage recoiling.

“That’s… deeply unpleasant,” Anders whispered with a curdled voice. He bowed his head, embarrassed at his earlier brash ignorance. “If that’s the cost to you of a kiss given too soon, I’d rather wait.”

“As would I.” A weary understanding passed between them. Nothing was ever easy or simple for them.

“Well, at least it makes sense now.” Anders sighed, wondering what would have happened if he had not needled his way into a game of questions and answers. “I’m glad I didn’t try to kiss you in your sleep. You’d have ripped my heart out.” He was deadly serious, but Fenris responded with an awkward laugh.

Anders laughed too, letting the comic relief wash over them. “Actually, I couldn’t blame you if you did!” The mage felt obligated to play the clown, even though he was faintly terrified. Fenris had no idea how many times Anders had dreamed of a lyrium lit hand invading his chest, constricting his heart. The blonde swallowed, doing his best not to tip his hand. “Would’ve served me right.” He shrugged.

Fenris narrowed his eyes, having picked up a half dozen signs of Anders trying and failing to bluff. It left him with questions that he did not expect truthful answers to. He chose to ask something else instead.

Fenris forced himself to laugh again before putting on his sweetest baritone. “Anders?”

“Hmm?” Anders shook his head to get rid of the mental image of Fenris’ glowing hand around his heart.

Fenris leaned close enough that his words caused Anders to shiver. “How many have you kissed?”

“Me?” Anders’ hand tightened reflexively in Fenris’ palm. He was pleased at being asked the question. “Enough that it’s not worth trying to count them.” Anders was not bragging, not preening or confessing. He was using the truth to joke at his own expense. “Too many. Does that make you jealous?”

“No.” Fenris said it matter-of-factly. A cloud passed over Anders’ face, relaying his disappointment. Fenris would not kiss Anders, but he could attempt flattery before they drifted asleep. He rumbled the closest thing to a compliment he could give. “I do not fear anyone from your past. Only you.”

Anders smiled wanly. He was staring at Fenris’ lips again. “I wish you didn’t. Fear me, I mean.”

“Then perhaps you should not have blown up a chantry, started a war, and driven me insane.” Though the words would be insulting coming from anyone else, they were poured from Fenris’ mouth with such touching endearment that they filled Anders with pride. Fenris found him, and only him, infuriating.

Anders drew near, his eyes mere inches from Fenris’ own. “Did I really drive you insane?” He found it romantic that he could wobble the former slave’s famous emotional equanimity. He basked in conceit.

“For a time. But now I am fine.” Fenris ran his fingers through the blonde’s hair. He kissed the metal sun on Anders’ forehead with a silent prayer of thanks. “And you are out of questions. Good night, Anders.”

Anders broke into such a genuine smile that Fenris would have sworn it impossible just a few days ago. The mage had gained what he hoped for when the questioning began. The kiss on the forehead was a bonus. Anders felt the blanket being transferred to his shoulders, a zen like peace surrounding him.

“Good night, Fenris.” He laid his head into a waiting lap that held the weight as if he were feather light.

Fenris cradled Anders, stroking his hair idly. The blonde finally snuffled and turned onto his side, sliding gently off the elf’s lap. Knowing he would not sleep so easily, Fenris gingerly stood and kicked dirt over the fire’s last embers. He padded to the edge of the rocky overhang to take in the landscape and think.


	15. Silent Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for the wonderful comments, kudos, and referrals. I plan to take a two week break while I plan my next move. There are at least two stories before this in the same timeline and many after it. I would like to post the story that follows immediately after DA2, but there are complications. Though I make no guarantees to use anyone's suggestions, I will be asking random questions of the peanut gallery on my tumblr to help me thread the needle: http://opheliasify.tumblr.com/

Fenris sat below the starry sky with legs crossed and toes curled inwards. The night air was cool, but an inner fire warmed him. A sea of flame had swept through him that evening. Anders gathered his embers in fascination and fanned them to a near blinding brightness. The river still stood calm and patient not far from their camp. Fenris wondered if his reflection would look different now. He feared that if this night became a pattern that they repeated along their journey, they would both get burned. No amount of water could quench the thirst he felt growing for the figure he felt like a phantom limb behind him.

Maybe part of him wanted to burn. Maybe he wanted to brand Anders. Perhaps they would blaze to ash together in a bout of spontaneous combustion. An awed witness would place their ashes into a shared urn. Then some errant fools would no doubt build a shrine to worship it. Despite their wishes, fate seemed hell bent on turning them both into something more than what they believed themselves to be.

And now Anders wished to kiss him. Setting the forest afire to kill them both would be less dangerous.

No matter what Fenris did, the inferno inside would rage. He could put up a hundred road blocks, give a thousand reasons to delay, try a million tactics to slow the relentless campaign. That unstoppable force of a man would overcome them all. For reasons he did not understand, he was living tinder to Anders.

And what was Anders to him? He was a rival first, then an obligation. Fenris found himself needing to not only protect the world from Anders, but also protect Anders from the world… and now from himself. Fenris could not be the mage’s worst enemy, clearly, as that place was already taken. Part of Fenris remained furious that he was bound to a mage. Another part of him grew fond of the arrangement.

Fenris searched the moon’s serene face for guidance on how best to survive the erupting volcano inside him. He hated it when he could not make an easy decision. It made him feel like a slave all over again.

It was only after gaining his freedom that Fenris learned to build the wall around him that allowed him to learn his own preferences and ultimately make his own choices. Those born free took such walls for granted. They spoke of personal space, of the right to one’s own opinion, of how each person is born to their own unique fate. As a slave, he knew nothing of this. His fate was his master’s fate, his will always his master’s will, his preferences his master’s own or irrelevant otherwise. And were his master to lend him to another or lose his ownership rights, his will and fate and preferences must change as well.

Building that wall from nothing after he became free took incredible strength. Fenris largely secluded himself for almost a decade to divide himself from the will and desires of others. That sturdy wall was in many ways Fenris’ most prized possession. If he dared drop his vigilance even for a moment, Anders blew through it as if it were incorporeal. He’d needed the silences between them to rebuild those walls.

Fenris had learned with bemusement that free people sometimes decided in a fit of passion to break down their walls for one another. Aveline had made herself a perfect fool, careening from copper marigolds to improper workplace favoritism to a tedious precleared patrol along the Wounded Coast. In the end, despite her many failures, she and Donnic had grown together. They even gained the ability to understand one another without speaking, a clever advantage. Somehow, their internal walls remained up for all save each other. Fenris could not begin to understand how such a tidy exception was possible.

As Fenris dug deep for inspiration, his mind flashed back to something Anders had said the day before.

“If the ring fits, wear it.” Fenris could not repress the convulsive laughter as he considered the saying. It was not his main intention, but he had proven the worth of that phrase in an entirely unexpected way.

Fenris decided to keep the brass ring from Anders’ riding boot that he’d used to teach him restraint that evening. He would tie it onto his utility belt in plain sight. It would serve as a reminder, one that only he and Anders would understand. To anyone else, it would be a keychain or a fob. He found himself looking forward to the first time he ordered Anders to show restraint by silently drawing attention to that ring.

And if Anders unclipped the ring and pressed it hopefully to his palm? Thinking of it made Fenris shiver.

At the sound of unbridled laughter, Anders’ eyes opened just a hair. The laugh resonated as genuine and profound, lacking the awkward self-consciousness of Fenris’ usual reserved chuckles. Anders wanted to hear it again. It made his stomach turn in a good way. That, or he was having trouble digesting the stew. No, the stew was divine. What Anders felt was a newfound exhilaration, joy at being free but not alone.

Anders spent a decade avoiding the same person now bound to him in time and space. Now that they were conjoined, he wanted to furrow himself even further inside. It would never, ever be enough. Thinking on this and remembering their eventful evening, Anders grew pleasantly weary. He had passed through a hurricane and now lay in the eye of the storm. If the calm passed and the storm returned, it would do so tomorrow. Until then, Anders felt clean and new and sated for the first time in many years.

Anders’ last sight before giving himself up to sleep was Fenris’ slender seated figure. The elf’s body formed a trim silhouette, his white hair aglow in the glimmer of the waxing moon. Silver moonlight framed dusky skin and dark clothes. If brooding could be elevated to an art, Fenris against the broad circle of the moon was a masterpiece. Anders drifted off to the sweet lullaby of the lyrium brands.

Fenris felt Anders’ magic calling softly to his brands. He arose and padded back to the mage, shuffling under the blanket they began sharing out of necessity. Of its own accord, Fenris’ arm went around Anders’ waist. His legs curled into a spoon until the blonde’s leg hairs tickled back. Fenris rested his head on one feathered pauldron, the other serving as Anders’ pillow. He inhaled the scent of Anders’ hair mixed with fresh black feathers, with a rich background of leather and sweat and spice and burnt wood.

They would not burn to ash and die. Anders was a phoenix fated to rise again. Fenris’ body alone could cage him. Smiling at this, Fenris floated to sleep to dream a memory of his own rebirth by trial and fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Many elements of this nonprofit story are copyrighted to Bioware including Fenris, Anders, and the Dragon Age universe. This is a gift for Pendency, who should not stop Surrender(ing) on my account. I also owe debt of thanks to Foxghost and her Raven, which I hope to someday repay. If you prefer to listen while reading, I wrote this to a classical soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_swlck3rbW0


End file.
